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THE UBRARY OF THE
UNIVERSITY OF
NORTH CAROLINA
AT CHAPEL HILL
E^roOWED BY THE DIALECTIC AND PHILANTHROP SOCIETIES
PR5612 .A 1 1888
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This book is due at the LOUIS R. WILSON LIBRARY on the last date stamped under "Date Due." If not on hold it may be renewed by bringing it to the library.
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Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2013
http://archive.org/details/historyofhenryesOOthac_0
Beatrix.
THACKERArS COMPLETE WORKS.
THE STERLING EDITION.
With 325 Illustrations by the Author, Du Maurier, Cruikshank, Leech, Millais, Barnard, and others.
THE HISTORY
OF
HENRY ESMOND, Esq,
A COLONEL IN THE SERVICE OF HER MAJESTY QUEEN ANNE
WRITTEN B Y HIMSELF pjf^ ^ U) 2^
BY
WILLIAM MAKE3eA€S^HACKERAY
nORTff
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ESTES AND LAURIAT 1888
TO THE RIGHT HONORABLE
WILLIAM BINGHAM, LORD ASHBURTON.
My dear Lord,
The writer of a book which copies the manners and lan- guage of Queen Anne's time, must not omit the Dedication to the Patron ; and I ask leave to inscribe this volume to j'our Lordship, for the sake of the great kindness and friendship which I owe to you and yours.
My volume will reach you when the Author is on his voyage to a country where your name is as well known as here. Wherever I am, I shall gratefully regard you ; and shall not be the less welcomed in America because I am Your obliged friend and servant,
W. M. THACKERAY.
London, October 18, 1852.
I
PREFACE.
THE ESMONDS OF VIRGINIA.
The estate of Castle wood, in Virginia, which was given to our ancestors by King Charles the First, as some return for the sacrifices made in his Majesty's cause by the Esmond family, lies in Westmoreland county, between the rivers Potomac and Rappahannock, and was once as great as an English Principality, though in the early times its revenues were but small. Indeed, for near eighty years after our forefathers possessed them, our plantations were in the hands of factors, who enriched them- selves one after another, though ^ few scores of hogsheads of tobacco were all the produce that, for long after the Restora- tion, our family received from their Virginian estates.
My dear and honored father. Colonel Henry Esmond, whose history, written by himself, is contained in the accompanying volume, came to Virginia in the year 1718, built his house of Castlewood, and here permanently settled. After a long stormy life in England, he passed the remainder of his many years in peace and honor in this country ; how beloved and respected by all his fellow-citizens, how inexpressibly dear to his famity, I need not say. His whole life was a benefit to all who were connected with him. He gave the best example, the best advice, the most bounteous hospitality to his friends ; the tenderest care to his dependants ; and bestowed on those of his immediate family such a blessing of fatherly love and protection as can never be thought of, by us, at least, without veneration and thankfulness ; and my sons' children, whether
vi PREFACE.
established here in our Republic, or at home in the always beloved mother country, from which our late quarrel hath sepa- rated us, may surely be proud to be descended from one who in all ways was so truly noble.
My dear mother died in 1736, soon after our return from England, whither my parents took me for my education ; and where I made the acquaintance of Mr. Warrington, whom my children never saw. When it pleased heaven, in the bloom of his youth, and after but a few months of a most happ}^ union, to remove him from me, I owed my recover}^ from the grief which that calamity caused me, mainly to my dearest father's tenderness, and then to the blessing vouchsafed to me in the birth of my two beloved boys. I know the fatal differences which separated them in politics never disunited their hearts ; and as I can love them both, whether wearing the King's colors or the Republic's, I am sure ttiat they love me and one another, and him above all, my father and theirs, the dearest friend of their childhood, the noble gentleman who bred them from their infancy in the practice and knowledge of Truth, and Love and Honor.
My children will never forget the appearance and figure of their revered grandfather ; and I wish I possessed the art of drawing (which my papa had in perfection), so that I could leave to our descendants a portrait of one who was so good and so respected. My father was of a dark complexion, with a very great forehead and dark hazel eyes, overhung by eye- brows which remained black long after his hair was white. His nose was aquiline, his smile extraordinary sweet. How well I remember it, and how little any description I can write can recall his image ! He was of rather low stature, not being above five feet seven inches in height ; he used to laugh at mj^ sons, whom he called his crutches, and say they were grown too tall for him to lean upon. But small as he was, he had a perfect grace and majest}^ of deportment, such as I have never seen in this country, except perhaps in our friend Mr. Wash- ington, and commanded respect wherever he appeared.
PREFACE. vii
In all bodily exercises he excelled, and showed an extraor- dinary quickness and agility. Of fencing he was especially fond, and made my two boys proficient in that art ; so much so, that when the French came to this country with Monsieur Rochambeau, not one of his officers was superior to my Henry, and he was not the equal of my poor George, who had taken the King's side in our lamentable but glorious war of in- dependence.
Neither my father nor mj' mother ever wore powder in their hair ; both their heads were as white as silver, as I can remem- ber them. My dear mother possessed to the last an extraordi- nary brightness and freshness of complexion ; nor would people believe that she did not wear rouge. At sixty years of age she still looked young, and was quite agile. It was not until after that dreadful siege of our house by the Indians, which left me a widow ere I was a mother, that my dear mother's health broke. She never recovered her terror and anxiety of those days which ended so fatally for me, then a bride scarce six months married, and died in my father's arms ere my own year of widowhood was over.
From that day, until the last of his dear and honored life, it was my delight and consolation to remain with him as his com- forter and companion ; and from those little notes which my mother hath made here and there in the volume in which my father describes his adventures in Europe, I can well under- stand the extreme devotion with which she regarded him — a devotion so passionate and exclusive as to prevent her, I think, from loving any other person except with an inferior regard ; her whole thoughts being centred on this one object of affection and worship. I know that, before her, my dear father did not show the love which he had for his daughter ; and in her last and most sacred moments, this dear and tender parent owned to me her repentance that she had not loved me enough : her jealousy even that my father should give his affection to any but herself: and in the most fond and beautiful words of affec- tion and admonition, she bade me never to leave him, and to
vm PREFACE.
supply the place which she was quitting. With a clear con^ science, and a heart inexpressibly thankful, I think I can say that I fulfilled those dying commands, and that until his last hour my dearest father never had to complain that his daugh- ter's love and fidelity failed him.
And it is since I knew him entirely — for during my mother's life he never quite opened himself to me — since I knew the value and splendor of that aflTection which he bestowed upon me, that I have come to understand and pardon what, I own, used to anger me in my mother's lifetime, her jealousy respect- ing her husband's love. 'Twas a gift so precious, that no wonder she who had it was for keeping it all, and could part with none of it, even to her daughter.
Though I never heard my father use a rough word, 'twas extraordinary with how much awe his people regarded him ; and the servants on our plantation, both those assigned from England and the purchased negroes, obeyed him with an eager- ness such as the most severe taskmasters round about us could never get from their people. He was never familiar, though perfectly simple and natural ; he was the same with the meanest man as with the greatest, and as courteous to a black slave-girl as to the Governor's wife. No one ever thought of taking a liberty with him (except once a tipsy gentleman from York, and I am bound to own that m}^ papa never forgave him) : he set the humblest people at once on their ease with him, and brought down the most arrogant by a grave satiric way, which made persons exceedingly afraid of hira. His courtesy was not put on like a Sunday suit, and laid by when the company went away ; it was always the same ; as he was always dressed the same, whether for a dinner by ourselves or for a great enter- tainment. They say he liked to be the first in his company ; but what company was there in which he would not be first ? When I went to Europe for my education, and we passed a winter at London with my half-brother, my Lord Castlewood and his second ladj^, I saw at her Majesty's Court some of the most famous gentlemen of those days ; and I thought to myself
PREFACE. ix
none of these are better than my papa ; and the famous Lord Bolingbroke, who came to us from Dawley, said as much, and that the men of that time were not like those of his youth : — *' Were your father, Madam," he said, " to go into the woods, the Indians would elect him Sachem ; " and his lordship was pleased to call me Pocahontas.
I did not see our other relative, Bishop Tusher's lady, of whom so much is said in my papa's memoirs — although my mamma went to visit her in the country. 1 have no pride (as I showed by complying with my mother's request, and marry- ing a gentleman who was but the younger son of a Suffolk Baronet) , yet I own to a decent respect for my name, and won- der how one who ever bore it, should change it for that of Mrs. Thomas Tusher, I pass over as odious and unworthy of credit those reports (which I heard in li^urope and was then too young to understand), how this person, having left her family and fled to Paris, out of jealousy of the Pretender betrayed his secrets to my Lord Stair, King George's Ambassador, and nearly caused the Prince's death there ; how she came to England and married this Mr. Tusher, and became a great favorite of King George the Second, by whom Mr. Tusher was made a Dean, and then a Bishop. I did not see the lady, who chose to re- main at her palace all the time we were in London ; but after visiting her, my poor mamma said she had lost all her good looks, and warned me not to set too much store by any such gifts which nature had bestowed upon me. She grew exceed- ingly stout ; and I remember my brother's wife, Lady Castle- wood, saying — "No wonder she became a favorite, for the King likes them old and ugly, as his father did before him." On which papa said — " All women were alike ; that there was never one so beautiful as that one ; and that we could forgive her everything but her beauty." And hereupon my mamma looked vexed, and my Lord Castlewood began to laugh ; and I, of course, being a young creature, could not understand what was the subject of their conversation.
After the circumstances narrated in the third book of these
X PREFACE.
Memoirs, my father and mother both went abroad, being ad- vised by their friends to leave the country in consequence of the transactions which are recounted at the close of the volume of the Memoirs. But my brother, hearing how the future Bishop's lady had quitted Castlewood and joined the Pretender at Paris, pursued him, and would have killed him. Prince as he was, had not the Prince managed to make his escape. On his expedition to Scotland directly after, Castlewood was so en- raged against him that he asked leave to serve as a volunteer, and join the Duke of Arg3^1e's armj^ in Scotland, which the Pretender never had the courage to face ; and thenceforth my Lord was quite reconciled to the present reigning family, from whom he hath even received promotion.
Mrs. Tusher was by this time as angry against the Pre- tender as any of her relations could be, and used to boast, as I have heard, that she not only brought back my Lord to the Church of England, but procured the English peerage for him, which the junior branch of our family at present enjoys. She was a great friend of Sir Kobert Walpole, and would not rest until her husband slept at Lambeth, my papa used laughing to say. However, the Bishop died of apoplexy suddenly, and his wife erected a great monument over him ; and the pair sleep under that stone, with a canopy of marble clouds and angels above them — the first Mrs. Tusher lying sixty miles off at Castlewood.
But my papa's genius and education are both greater than any a woman can be expected to have, and his adventures in Europe far more exciting than his life in this country, which was passed in the tranquil offices of love and duty ; and I shall say no more by way of introduction to his Memoirs, nor keep my children from the perusal of a story which is much more interesting than that of their affectionate old mother,
RACHEL ESMOND WARRINGTON. Castlewood, Virginia, November 3, 1778.
CONTENTS.
BOOK I.
THE EARLY YOUTH OF HENRY ESMOND, UP TO THE TIME OF HIS LEAVING TRINITY COLLEGE, IN CAMBRIDGE.
Chapter Page
I. An Account of the Family of Esmond of Castlewood
Hall 4
II. Relates how Francis, Fourth Viscount, arrives at Castle- wood 9
III. Whither, in the time of Thomas, Third Viscount, I had
preceded him as Page to Isabella 16
IV. I am placed under a Popish Priest and bred to that
Religion. — Viscountess Castlewood 26
V. My Superiors are engaged in Plots for the Restoration of
King James II 32
VI. The Issue of the Plots. — The Death of Thomas, Third Viscount of Castlewood ; and the Imprisonment of his
Viscountess 42
VII. I am left at Castlewood an Orphan, and find most kind
Protectors there 55
VIII. After Good Fortune comes Evil 62
IX. I have the Small-pox, and prepare to leave Castlewood . 70
X. I go to Cambridge, and do but little Good there ... 88 XI. I come Home for a Holiday to Castlewood, and find a
Skeleton in the House 94
XII. My Lord Mohun comes among us for no Good .... 106
XIII. My Lord leaves us and his Evil behind him 114
XIV. We ride after him to London 126
xii CONTENTS.
BOOK n.
CONTAINS MR. ESMOND'S MILITARY LIFE, AND OTHER MATTERS APPERTAINING TO THE ESMOND FAMILY.
Chapteb Pagb
I. I am in Prison, and Visited, but not Consoled there . . 141
II. I come to the End of my Captivity, but not of my Trouble 150
III. I take the Queen's Pay in Quin's Regiment 158
IV. Recapitulations 166
V. I go on the Vigo Bay Expedition, taste Salt Water and
smell Powder 172
VI. The 29th December 182
VII. I am made Welcome at Walcote 188
VIII. Family Talk 197
IX. I make the Campaign of 1704 203
X. An Old Story about a Fool and a Woman 212
XI. The famous Mr. Joseph Addison 220
XII. I get a Company in the Campaign of 1706 230
XIII. I meet an Old Acquaintance in Flanders, and find my
Mother's Grave and my own Cradle there .... 235
XIV. The Campaign of 1707, 1708 246
XV. General Webb wins the Battle of Wynendael .... 253
BOOK IIL
CONTAINING THE END OF MR. ESMOND'S ADVENTURES IN ENGLAND.
I. I come to an End of my Battles and Bruises .... 277
II. I go Home, and harp on the Old String 289
III. APaper out of the *' Spectator" 302
IV. Beatrix's New Suitor 318
V. Mohun appears for the Last Time in this History . . . 328
VI. Poor Beatrix 340
VII. I visit Castlewood once more 345
VIII. I travel to France and bring Home a Portrait of Rigaud 355
IX. The Original of the Portrait comes to England . . . 364
X. We entertain a very Distinguished Guest at Kensington 376
XI. Our Guest quits us as not being Hospitable enough . . 389
XII. A great Scheme, and who Balked it 398
Xm. August 1st, 1714 403
ILLUSTRATIONS.
Henry Esmond finds Friends 6
Parting 87
The Duel in Leicester Field 137
Beatrix 189
The Chevalier de St. George 289
Reconciliation 327
Monsieur Baptiste < 370
The Last of Beatrix 411
THE HISTOEY OF
HENRY ESMOND
BOOK I.
THE EARLY YOUTH OF HENRY ESMOND, UP TO THE TIME OP HIS LEAVING TRINITY COLLEGE, IN CAMBRIDGE.
The actors in the old tragedies, as we read, piped their iambics to a tuDe, speaking from under a mask, and wearing stilts and a great head-dress. 'Twas thought the dignity of the Tragic Muse required these appurtenances, and that she was not to move except to a measure and cadence. So Queen Medea slew her children to a slow music : and King Agamem- non perished in a dying fall (to use Mr. Dryden's words) : the Chorus standing b^^ in a set attitude, and rhythmically and deco- rousl}^ bewailing the fates of those great crowned persons. The Muse of History hath encumbered herself with ceremon}' as well as her Sister of the Theatre. She too wears the mask and the cothurnus, and speaks to measure. She too, in our age, busies herself with the affairs only of kings ; waiting on them obsequi- ously and stately, as if she were but a mistress of court (cere- monies, and had nothing to do with the registering of the aff'airs of the common people. I have seen in his very old age and decrepitude the old French King Lewis the Fourteenth, the type and model of kinghood — who never moved but to meas- ure, who lived and died according to the laws of his Court- marshal, persisting in enacting through life the part of Hero ; and, divested of poetiy, this was but a little wrinkled old man, pock-marked, and with a great periwig and red heels to make him look tall — a hero for a book if j'ou like, or for a brass statue or a painted ceiling, a god in a Roman shape, but what more than a man for Madame Maintenon, or the barber who shaved him, or Monsieur Fagon, his surgeon? I wonder shall History ever pull off her periwig and cease to be court-ridden ?
2 THE HISTORY OF HE:N^RY ESMOND.
Shall we see something of France and England besides Ver- sailles and Windsor? I saw Queen Anne at the latter place tearing down the Park slopes, after her stag-hounds, and driv- ing her one-horse chaise — a hot, red-faced woman, not in the least resembling that statue of her which turns its stone back upon St. Paul's, and faces the coaches struggling up Ludgate Hill. She was neither better bred nor wiser than you and me, though we knelt to hand her a letter or a wash-hand basin. Why shall Historj^ go on kneeling to the end of time ? I am for having her rise up off her knees, and take a natural posture : not to be for ever performing cringes and congees like a court- chamberlain, and shuffling backwards out of doors in the pres- ence of the sovereign. In a word, I would have History famihar rather than heroic : and think that Mr. Hogarth and Mr. Field- ing will give our children a much better idea of the manners of the present age in England, than the Court Gazette and the newspapers which we get thence.
There was a German officer of Webb's, with whom we used to joke, and of whom a story (whereof I m^'self was the author) was got to be believed in the arm}', that he was eldest son of the hereditary Grand Bootjack of the Empire, and the heir to that honor of which his ancestors had been ver}' proud, having been kicked for twenty generations by one imperial foot, as they drew the boot from the other. I have heard that the old Lord Castle wood, of part of whose famih^ these present vol- umes are a chronicle, though he came of quite as good blood as the Stuarts whom he served (and who as regards mere lineage are no better than a dozen English and Scottish houses I could name), was prouder of his post about the Court than of his ancestral honors, and valued his dignit}' (as Lord of the But- teries and Groom of the King's Posset) so highly, that he cheerfully ruined himself for the thankless and thriftless race who bestowed it. He pawned his plate for King Charles the First, mortgaged his property for the same cause, and lost the greater part of it by fines and sequestration : stood a siege of his castle by Ireton, where his brother Thomas capitulated (afterward making terms with the Commonwealth, for which the elder brother never forgave him), and where his second brother Edward, who had embraced the ecclesiastical profes- sion, was slain on Castle wood Tower, being engaged there both as preacher and artilleryman. This resolute old loyalist, who was with the King whilst his house was thus being bat- tered down, escaped abroad with his only son, then a boy, to return and take a part in Worcester fight. On that fatal field
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 3
Eustace Esmond was killed, and Castle wood fled from it once more into exile, and henceforward, and after the Restoration, never was awa}' from the Court of the monarch (for whose return we offer thanks in the Praj'er-Book) who sold his coun- try and who took bribes of the French king.
What spectacle is more august than that of a great king in exile? Who is more worth}^ of respect than a brave man in misfortune? Mr. Addison has painted such a figure in his noble piece of Cato. But suppose fugitive Cato fuddhng him- self at a tavern with a wench on each knee, a dozen faithful and tipsy companions of defeat, and a landlord calling out for his bill ; and the dignit}^ of misfortune is straightway lost. The Historical Muse turns awa}^ shamefaced from the vulgar scene, and closes the door — on which the exile's unpaid drink is scored up — upon him and his pots and his pipes, and the tavern-chorus which he and his friends are singing. Such a man as Charles should have had an Ostade or Mieris to paint him. Your Knellers and Le Bruns onl}^ de-al in clumsy and impossible allegories : and it hath always seemed to me blas- phemy to claim Olympus for such a wine-drabbled divinity as that.
About the King's follower, the Viscount Castlewood — or- phan of his son, ruined b}^ his fidelit}^, bearing many wounds and marks of braver}^, old and in exile — his kinsmen I sup- pose should be silent ; nor if this patriarch fell down in his cups, call fie upon him, and fetch passers-by to laugh at his red face and white hairs. What ! does a stream rush out of a mountain free and pure, to roll through fair pastures, to feed and throw out bright tributaries, and to end in a village gutter? Lives that have noble commencements have often no better endings ; it is not without a kind of awe and reverence that an observer should speculate upon such careers as he traces the course of them. I have seen too much of success in life to take off my hat and huzzah to it as it passes in its gilt coach : and would do m}' little part with my neighbors on foot, that the}^ should not gape with too much wonder, nor applaud too loudly. Is it the Lord Mayor going in state to mince-pies and the Mansion House? Is it poor Jack of Newgate's procession, with the sheriff and javelin-men, conducting him on his last journe}' to Tyburn ? I look into my heart and think that I am as good as m}^ Lord Mayor, and know I am as bad as Tyburn Jack. Give me a chain and red gown and a pudding before me, and I could pla}^ the part of Alderman ver}^ well, and sen- tence Jack after dinner. Starve me, keep me from books and
4 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOiN^D.
honest people, educate me to love dice, gin, and pleasure, and put me on Hdunslow Heath, with a purse before me, and I will take it. " And I shall be deservedly hanged," sa}^ you, wish- ing to put an end to this prosing. I don't sa}^ No. I can't but accept the world as I find it, including a rope's end, as long as it is in fashion.
CHAPTER I.
AN ACCOUNT OF THE FAMILY OF ESMOND OF CASTLE WOOD HALL.
When Francis, fourth Viscount Castle wood, came to his title, and presently after to take possession of his house of Castle- wood, county Hants, in the year 1691, almost the only tenant of the place besides the domestics was a lad of twelve j'ears of age, of whom no one seemed to take any note until mj Lady Viscountess lighted upon him, going over the house with the housekeeper on the da}^ of her arrival. The boy was in the room known as the Book-room, or Yellow Caller}^, where the por- traits of the family used to hang, that fine piece among others of Sir Antonio Van Dyck of George, second Viscount, and that by Mr. Dobson of my lord the third Viscount, just deceased, which it seems his lady and widow did not think fit to carry away, when she sent for and carried ofl" to her house at Chelse}-, near to London, the picture of herself by Sir Peter Lely, in which her lad3'ship was represented as a huntress of Diana's court.
The new and fair lady of Castlewood found the sad, lonely, little occupant of this gallery busy over his great book, which he laid down when he was aware that a stranger was at hand. And, knowing who that person must be, the lad stood up and bowed before her, performing a shy obeisance to the mistress of his house.
She stretched out her hand — indeed when was it that that hand would not stretch out to do an act of kindness, or to pro- tect grief and ill-fortune? "And this is our kinsman," she said ; " and what is 3^our name, kinsman ? "
''My name is Henr}^ Esmond," said the lad, looking up at her in a sort of delight and wonder, for she had come upon him as a Dea certe, and appeared the most charming object he had ever looked on. Her golden hair was shining in the gold of the sun ; her complexion was of a dazzling bloom ; her lips
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 5
smiling, and her eyes beaming with a kindness which made Harry Esmond's heart to beat with surprise.
" His name is Henry Esmond, sure enough, my lady," saj's Mrs. Worksop, the housekeeper (an old tyrant whom Henry Esmond plagued more than he hated) , and the old gentlewoman looked signiiicantly towards the late lord's picture, as it now is in the family, noble and severe-looking, with his hand on his sword, and his order on his cloak, which he had from the Em- peror during the war on the Danube against the Turk.
Seeing the great and undeniable likeness between this por- trait and the lad, the new Viscountess, who had still hold of the bo3''s hand as she looked at the picture, blushed and dropped the hand quicklj^, and walked down the gallery, followed b3^ Mrs, Worksop.
When the lady came back, Harry Esmond stood exactly in the same spot, and with his hand as it had fallen when he dropped it on his black coat.
Her heart melted, I suppose (indeed she hath since owned as much) , at the notion that she should do anything unkind to an}' mortal, great or small ; for, when she returned, she had sent away the housekeeper upon an errand by the door at the farther end of the gallerj' ; and, coming back to the lad, with a look of infinite pity and tenderness in her eyes, she took his hand again, placing her other fair hand on his head, and say- ing some words to him, which were so kind, and said in a voice so sweet, that the boy, who had never looked upon so much beauty before, felt as if the touch of a superior being or angel smote him down to the ground, and kissed the fair protecting hand as he knelt on one knee. To the ver}' last hour of his life, Esmond remembered the lady as she then spoke and looked, the rings on her fair hands, the very scent of her robe, the beam of her eyes lighting up with surprise and kindness, her lips blooming in a smile, the sun making a golden halo round her hair.
As the boy was yet in this attitude of humihty, enters be- hind him a portly gentleman, with a little girl of four years old in his hand. The gentleman burst into a great laugh at the lady and her adorer, with his little queer figure, his sallow face, and long black hair. The lad}' blushed, and seemed to depre- cate his ridicule b}' a look of appeal to her husband, for it was m}' Lord Viscount who now arrived, and whom the lad knew, having once before seen him in the late lord's lifetime.
' ' So this is the little priest ! " says my lord, looking down at the lad ; '' welcome, kinsman."
6 THE HISTORY OF HENKY ESMOND.
" He is saying his praj'ers to mamma," says the little girl, who came up to her papa's knees ; and my lord burst out into another great laugh at this, and kinsman Henr3^ looked very silly. He invented a half-dozen of speeches in repl}', but 'twas months afterwards when he thought of this adventure : as it was, he had never a word in answer.
" Le pauvre enfant, il n'a que nous," says the lady, looking to her lord ; and the bo}^, who understood her, though doubtless she thought otherwise, thanked her with all his heart for her kind speech.
" And he shan't want for friends here," says my lord in a kind voice, " shall he, little Trix?"
The little girl, whose name was Beatrix, and whom her papa called bj' this diminutive, looked at Henr}^ Esmond solemnly, with a pair of large e3'es, and then a smile shone over her face, which was as beautiful as that of a cherub, and she came up and put out a little hand to him. A keen and delightful pang of gratitude, happiness, affection, filled the orphan child's heart, as he received from the protectors, whom Heaven had sent to him, these touching words and tokens of friendliness and kind- ness. But an hour since, he had felt quite alone in the world : when he heard the great peal of bells from Castlewood church ringing that morning to welcome the arrival of the new lord and lad3^, it had rung onl}^ terror and anxiety to him, for he knew not how the new owner would deal with him ; and those to whom he formerl}^ looked for protection were forgotten or dead. Pride and doubt too had kept him within-doors, when the Vicar and the people of the village, and the servants of the house, had gone out to welcome mj^ Lord Castlewood — for Henr}' Esmond was no servant, though a dependant ; no rela- tive, though he bore the name and inherited the blood of the house ; and in the midst of the noise and acclamations attending the arrival of the new lord (for whom, you ma}' be sure, a feast was got ready, and guns were fired, and tenants and domestics huzzahed when his carriage approached and rolled into the court-yard of the Hall) , no one ever took any notice of young Henry Esmond, who sat unobserved and alone in the Book- room, until the afternoon of that day, when his new friends found him.
When my lord and lady were going away thence, the little girl, still holding her kinsman b}' the hand, bade him to come too. " Thou wilt always forsake an old friend for a new one, Trix," says her father to her good-naturedl}' ; and went into the gallerj^, giving an arm to his lady. They passed thence
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 7
through the music-gallery, long since dismantled, and Queen Elizabeth's Rooms, in the clock-tower, and out into the terrace, where was a fine prospect of sunset and the great darkling woods with a cloud of rooks returning ; and the plain and river with Castle wood village beyond, and purple hills beautiful to look at — and the little heir of Castlewood, a child of two 3'ears old, was already here on the terrace in his nurse's arms, from whom he ran across the grass instantl}' he perceived his mother, and came to her.
"If thou canst not be happy here," says my lord, looking round at the scene, " thou art hard to please, Rachel."
" I am happy where 3^ou are," she said, " but we were hap- piest of all at Walcote Forest." Then my lord began to de- scribe what was before them to his wife, and what indeed little Harry knew better than he — viz. , the historj' of the house : how b}^ yonder gate the page ran away with the heiress of Castle- wood, by which the estate came into the present family; how the Roundheads attacked the clock-tower, which my lord's father was slain in defending. " I was but tw^o 3'ears old then," says he, "but take forty-six from ninety, and how old shall I be, kinsman Harry?"
" Thirty," says his wife, with a laugh.
"A great deal too old for 3'ou, Rachel," answers my lord, looking fondl^^ down at her. Indeed she seemed to be a girl, and was at that time scarce twenty 3'ears old.
" You know, Frank, I will do an3'thing to please 3'ou," saj^s she, " and I promise you I will grow older every da3'."
"You mustn't call papa, Frank; 3'ou must call papa my lord now," sa3S Miss Beatrix, with a toss of her little head ; at which the mother smiled, and the good-natured father laughed, and the little trotting bo3' laughed, not knowing why — but because he was happ3', no doubt — as ever3' one seemed to be there. How those trivial incidents and words, the landscape and sunshine, and the group of people smiling and talking, remain fixed on the memor3' !
As the sun was setting, the little heir was sent in the arms of his nurse to bed, whither he went howling ; but little Trix was promised to sit to supper that night — " and 3'Ou will come too, kinsman, won't 3'ou?" she said.
Harr3' Esmond blushed: "I — I have supper with Mrs. Worksop," says he.
" D — n it," sa3's my lord, " thou shalt sup with us, Harr3^, to-night! Shan't refuse a lad3', shall he, Trix?" — and they all wondered at Harry's performance as a trencher-man, in
8 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND.
which character the poor boy acquitted himself ver}" remark- ably ; for the truth is he had had no dinner, nobody thinking of him in the bustle which the house was in, during the prepa- rations antecedent to the new lord's arrival.
" No dinner ! poor dear child ! " says my lady, heaping up Lis plate with meat, and my lord, filling a bumper for him, bade him call a health ; on which Master Harry, crying " The King," tossed off the wine. My lord was ready to drink that, and most other toasts : indeed onl}' too ready. He would not hear of Doctor Tusher (the Vicar of Castlewood, who came to supper) going away when the sweetmeats were brought : he had not had a chaplain long enough, he said, to be tired of him : so his reverence kept my lord company for some hours over a pipe and a punch-bowl ; and went awa}^ home with rather a reeling gait, and declaring a dozen of times, that his lordship's affability surpassed everj^ kindness he had ever had from his lordship's gracious famil3\
As for young Esmond, when he got to his little chamber, it was with a heart full of surprise and gratitude towards the new friends whom this happy da\' had brought him. He was up and watching long before the house was astir, longing to see that fair lady and her children — that kind protector and pa- tron ; and only fearful lest their welcome of the past night should in an}' way be withdrawn or altered. But presently little Beatrix came out into the garden, and her mother followed, who greeted Hany as kindl}" as before. He told her at greater length the histories of the house (which he had been taught in the old lord's time), and to which she listened with great inter- est ; and then he told her, with respect to the night before, that he understood French, and thanked her for her protec- tion.
" Do you?" says she, with a blush ; " then, sir, jon shall teach me and Beatrix." And she asked him man^^ more ques- tions regarding himself, which had best be told more fully and explicitly than in those brief replies which the lad made to his mistress's questions.
THE HISTOKY OF HENRY ESMOND.
CHAPTER II.
RELATES HOW FRANCIS, FOURTH VISCOUNT, ARRIVES AT CASTLE- WOOD.
'Tis known that the name of Esmond and the estate of Castlewood, com. Hants, came into possession of the present family through Dorothea, daughter and heiress of Edward, Earl and Marquis Esmond, and Lord of Castlewood, wiiich lady married, 23 Eliz., Henry Poyns, gent.; the said Henry being then a page in the household of her father. Francis, son and heir of the above Henry and Dorothea, who took the maternal name which the family hath borne subsequently-, was made Knight and Baronet by King James the First ; and being of a military disposition, remained long in Germany with the Elector- Palatine, in whose service Sir Francis incurred both expense and danger, lending large sums of mone}' to that unfortunate Prince ; and receiving man}^ wounds in the battles against the Imperialists, in which Sir Francis engaged.
On his return home Sir Francis was rewarded for his ser- vices and many sacrifices, by his late Majesty James the First, who graciously conferred upon this tried servant the post of Warden of the Butteries and Groom of the King's Posset, which high and confidential office he filled in that king's and his unhappy successor's reign.
His age, and many wounds and infirmities, obliged Sir Francis to perform much of his duty by deputy ; and his son. Sir George Esmond, knight and banneret, first as his father's lieutenant, and afterwards as inheritor of his father's title and dignity, performed this office during almost the whole of the reign of King Charles the First, and his two sons who suc- ceeded him.
Sir George Esmond married, rather beneath the rank that a person of his name and honor might aspire to, the daughter of Thos. Topham, of the city of London, alderman and gold- smith, who, taking the Parliamentary side in the troubles then commencing, disappointed Sir George of the property which he expected at the demise of his father-in-law, who devised his money to his second daughter, Barbara, a spinster.
Sir George Esmond, on his part, was conspicuous for his attachment and loyalty to the Royal cause and person ; and
10 THE HISTORY OF HEXRY ESMOXD.
the King being at Oxford in 1642, Sir George, with the consent of his father, then very aged and infirm, and residing at his house of Castle wood, melted the whole of the family plate for his Majest3's service.
For this, and other sacrifices and merits, his Majesty, by patent under the Priv}^ Seal, dated Oxford, Jan., 1643, was pleased to advance Sir Francis Esmond to the dignity of Vis- count Castlewood, of Shandon, in Ireland : and the Viscount's estate being much impoverished by loans to the King, which in those troublesome times his Majest}" could not repa}', a grant of land in the plantations of Virginia was given to the Lord Vis- count ; part of which land is in possession of descendants of his family to the present day.
The first Viscount Castlewood died full of years, and within a few months after he had been advanced to his honors. He was succeeded by his eldest son, the before-named George ; and left issue besides, Thomas, a colonel in the King's armj', who after- wards joined the Usurper's Government ; and Francis, in holy orders, who was slain whilst defending the House of Castlewood against the Parliament, anno 1647.
George Lord Castlewood (the second Viscount), of King Charles the First's time, had no male issue save his one son, Eustace P^smond, who was killed, with half of the Castlewood men beside him, at Worcester fight. The lands about Castle- wood were sold and apportioned to the Commonwealth men ; Castlewood being concerned in almost all of the plots against the Protector, after the death of the King, and up to King Charles the Second's restoration. My lord followed that king's Court about in its exile, having ruined himself in its service. He had but one daughter, who was of no great comfort to her father ; for misfortune had not taught those exiles sobriety of life ; and it is said that the Duke of York and his brother the King both quarrelled about Isabel Esmond. She was maid of honor to the Queen Henrietta Maria ; she earl}^ joined the Roman Church ; her father, a weak man, following her not long after at Breda.
On the death of Eustace Esmond at Worcester, Thomas Esmond, nephew to my Lord Castlewood, and then a stripling, became heir to the title. His father had taken the Parliament side in the quarrels, and so had been estranged from the chief of his house ; and m}" Lord Castlewood was at first so much en- raged to think that his title (albeit little more than an emptj* one now) should pass to a rascally Roundhead, that he would have married again, and indeed proposed to do so to a A'intner's
THE HISTORY OF HEXRY ESMOND. 11
daughter at Bruges, to whom his lordship owed a score for lodging when the King was there, but for fear of the laughter of the Court, and the anger of his daughter, of whom he stood in awe ; for she was in temper as imperious and violent as my lord, who was much enfeebled by wounds and drinking, was weak.
.Lord Castlewood would have had a match between his daughter Isabel ajid her cousin, the son of that Francis Esmond who was killed at Castlewood siege. And the lady, it was said, took a fancy to the young man, who was her junior by several years (which circumstance she did not consider to be a fault in him) ; but having paid his court, and being admitted to the intimac}' of the house, he suddenl}^ flung up his suit, when it seemed to be pretty prosperous, without giving a pretext for his behavior. His friends rallied him at what they iaughingl3^ chose to call his infidelity ; Jack Churchill, Frank Esmond's lieutenant in the Royal Regiment of Foot-guards, getting the company which Esmond vacated, when he left the Court and went to Tangier in a rage at discovering that his promotion depended on the complaisance of his elderly affianced bride. He and Churchill, who had been condiscipuli at St. Paul's School, had words about this matter ; and Frank Esmond said to him with an oath, " Jack, 3'our sister ma}' be so-and-so, but by Jove m}' wife shan't ! " and swords were drawn, and blood drawn too, until friends separated them on this quarrel. Few men were so jealous about the point of honor in those days ; and gentlemen of good birth and lineage thought a royal blot was an ornament to their family coat. Frank Esmond retired in the sulks, first to Tangier, whence he returned after two years' service, settling on a small propert}' he had of his mother, near to Winchester, and became a country gentleman, and kept a pack of beagles, and never came to Court again in King Charles's time. But his uncle Castlewood was never reconciled to him ; nor, for some time afterwards, his cousin whom he had refused.
By places, pensions, bounties from France, and gifts from the King, whilst his daughter was in favor. Lord Castlewood, who had spent in the Royal service his 3"Outh and fortune, did not retrieve the latter quite, and never cared to visit Castle- wood, or repair it, since the death of his son, but managed to keep a good house, and figure at Court, and to save a consider- able sum of read}" money.
, And now, his heir and nephew, Thomas Esmond, began to bid for his uncle's favor. Thomas had served with the Emperor,
12 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND.
and with the Dutch, when King Charles was compelled to lend troops to the States ; and against them, when his Majesty made an alliance with the French King. In these campaigns Thomas Esmond was more remarked for duelling, brawling, vice, and play, than for any conspicuous gallantry in the field, and came back to England, like many another English gentleman who has travelled, with a character by no means improved b}' his foreign experience. He had dissipated his small paternal in- heritance of a younger brother's portion, and, as truth must be told, was no better than a hanger-on of ordinaries, and a brawler about Alsatia and the Friars, when he bethought him of a means of mending his fortune.
His cousin was now of more than middle age, and had nobody's word but her own for the beauty which she said she once possessed. She was lean, and j'ellow, and long in the tooth ; all the red and white in all the toy-shops in London could not make a beauty of her — Mr. Killigrew called her the Sybil, the death's-head put up at the King's feast as a memento mori^ &c. — in fine, a woman who might be easy of conquest, but whom only a very bold man would think of conquering. This bold man was Thomas Esmond. He had a fancy to my Lord Castlewood's savings, the amount of which rumor had very much exaggerated. Madame Isabel was said to have Royal jewels of great value ; whereas poor Tom Esmond's last coat but one was in pawn.
My lord had at this time a fine house in Lincoln's-Inn-Fields, nigh to the Duke's Theatre and the Portugal ambassador's chapel. Tom Esmond, who had frequented the one as long as he had money to spend among the actresses, now came to the church as assiduously. He looked so lean and shabb}^ that he passed without difficulty for a repentant sinner ; and so, becoming converted, 3'ou may be sure took his uncle's priest for a director.
This charitable father reconciled him with the old lord, his uncle, who a short time before would not speak to him, as Tom passed under my lord's coach window, his lordship going in state to his place at Court, while his nephew slunk bj' with his battered hat and feather, and the point of his rapier sticking out of the scabbard — to his twopenny ordinary in Bell Yard.
Thomas Esmond, after this reconcihation with his uncle, very soon began to grow sleek, and to show signs of the benefits of good living and clean linen. He fasted rigorouslj^ twice a week, to be sure ; but he made amends on the other daj^s : and, to show how great his appetite was, Mr. Wycherley said, he
THE HISTORY OF HEiN'RY ESMOND. 13
ended by swallowing that fly-blown rank old morsel his cousin. There were endless jokes and lampoons about this marriage at Court : but Tom rode thither in his uncle's coach now, called him father, and having won could afford to laugh. This mar- riage took place very shortl}' before King Charles died : whom the Viscount of Castlewood speedilj' followed.
The issue of this marriage was one son, whom the parents watched with an intense eagerness and care ; but who, in spite of nurses and ph3'sicians, had only a brief existence. His tainted blood did not run very long in his poor feeble little body. Symptoms of evil broke out early on him ; and, part from flattery, part superstition, nothing would satisfy my lord and lady, especially the latter, but having the poor little cripple touched by his Majesty at his church. They were ready to cry out miracle at first (the doctors and quack-salvers being con- stantly in attendance on the child, and experimenting on his poor little body with every conceivable nostrum) — but though there seemed, from some reason, a notable amelioration in the infant's health after his Majesty touched him, in a few weeks afterward the poor thing died — causing the lampooners of the Court to say, that the King, in expelling evil out of the infant of Tom Esmond and Isabella his wife, expelled the life out of it, which was nothing but corruption.
The mother's natural pang at losing this poor little child must have been increased when she thought of her rival Frank Esmond's wife, who was a favorite of the whole Court, where my poor Lady Castlewood was neglected, and who had one child, a daughter, flourishing and beautiful, and was about to become a mother once more.
The Court, as I have heard, onl}' laughed the more because the poor lady, who had pretty well passed the age when ladies are accustomed to have children, nevertheless determined not to give hope up, and even when she came to live at Castlewood, was constantly sending over to Hexton for the doctor, and announcing to her friends the arrival of an heir. This absurdity of hers was one amongst many others which the wags used to jjlay upon. Indeed, to the last days of her life, my Lady Viscountess had the comfort of fancying herself beautiful, and persisted in blooming up to the very midst of winter, painting roses on her cheeks long after their natural season, and attiring herself like summer though her head was covered with snow.
Gentlemen who were about the Court of King Charles, and King James, have told the present writer a number of stories abbut this queer old lady, with which it's not necessary that
14 THE PIISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND.
posterity should be entertained. She is said to have had great powers of invective ; and, if she fought with all her rivals in King James's favor, 'tis certain she must have had a vast number of quarrels on her hands. She was a woman of an intrepid spirit, and, it appears, pursued and rather fatigued his Majesty with her rights and her wrongs. Some say that the cause of her leaving Court was jealousy of Frank Esmond's wife : others, that she was forced to retreat after a great battle which took place at Whitehall, between her ladyship and Lad}^ Dorchester, Tom Killigrew's daughter, whom the King delighted to honor, and in which that ill-favored Esther got the better of our elderly- Vashti. But her ladyship, for her part, always averred that it was her husband's quarrel, and not her own, which occasioned the banishment of the two into the country ; and the cruel ingratitude of the Sovereign in giving awa}^, out of the family, that place of Warden of the Butteries and Groom of the King's Posset, which the two last Lords Castlewood had held so honorably, and which was now conferred upon a fellow of 3'esterda_y, and a hanger-on of that udious Dorchester creature, my Lord Bergamot ; * ''I never," said m}' lady, "could have come to see his Majesty's posset carried by an}'^ other hand than an Esmond. I should have dashed the salver out of Lord Bergamot's hand, had I met him." And those who knew her ladj'ship are aware that she was a person quite capable of per- forming this feat, had she not wiseh' kept out of the way.
Holding the purse-strings in her own control, to which, indeed, she liked to bring most persons who came near her. Lad}' Castlewood could command her husband's obedience, and so broke up her establishment at London ; she had removed from Lincoln's-Inn-Fields to Chelse^^, to a pretty new house she bought there ; and brought her establishment, her maids, lap-dogs, and gentlewomen, her priest, and his lordship her husband, to Castlewood Hall, that she had never seen since she quitted it as a child with her father during the troubles of King Charles the First's reign. The walls were still open in the old house as they had been left b}' the shot of the Common- wealthmen. A part of the mansion was restored and furbished up with the plate, hangings, and furniture brought from the
* Lionel Tipton, created Baron Bergamot, ann. 1686, Gentleman Usher of the Back Stairs, and afterwards appointed Warden of the Butteries and Groom of the King's Posset (on the decease of George, second Viscount Castlewood), accompanied his Majesty to St. Germain's, where he died without issue. No Groom of the Posset was appointed by the Prince of Orange, nor hath there been such an officer in any succeeding reign.
THE HISTORY OF HEXRY ESMOND. 15
house in London. My lad}^ meant to have a triumphal entry into Castle wood village, and expected the people to cheer as she drove over the Green in her great coach, my lord beside her, her gentlewomen, lap-dogs, and cockatoos on the opposite seat, six horses to her carriage, and servants armed and mounted following it and preceding it. But 'twas in the height of the No-Popery cr}" ; the folks in the village and the neighboring town were scared by the sight of her ladj'ship's painted face and eyelids, as she bobbed her head out of the coach window, meaning, no doubt, to be very gracious ; and one old woman said, " Lad}- Isabel ! lord-a-mercy, it's Lady Jezebel ! " a name by which the enemies of the right honorable Viscountess were afterwards in the habit of designating her. The countrj" was then in a great No-Poper}^ fervor ; her ladj^ship's known con- version, and her husband's, the priest in her train, and the service performed at the chapel of Castlewood (though the chapel had been built for that worship before any other was heard of in the country, and though the service was performed in the most quiet manner), got her no favor at first in the county or village. By far the greater part of the estate of Castlewood had been confiscated, and been parcelled out to Commonwealthmen. One or two of these old Cromwellian soldiers were still alive in the village, and looked griml}^ at first upon my Lad}^ Viscountess, when she came to dwell there.
She appeared at the Hexton Assembly, bringing her lord after her, scaring the country folks with the splendor of her diamonds, which she always wore in public. They said she wore them in private, too, and slept with them round her neck ; though the writer can pledge his word that this was a calumu}'. " If she were to take them off*," my Lady Sark said, "Tom Esmond, her husband, would run away with them and pawn them." 'Twas another calumny. My Lady Sark was also an exile from Court, and there had been war between the two ladies before.
The village people began to be reconciled presentl}^ to their lady, who was generous and kind, though fantastic and haughtj-, in her waj's ; and whose praises Dr. Tusher, the Vicar, sounded loudly amongst his flock. As for my lord, he gave no great trouble, being considered scarce more than an appendage to my lad}^ who, as daughter of the old lords of Castlewood, and possessor of vast wealth, as the country folks said (though indeed nine-tenths of it existed but in rumor), was looked upon as the real queen of the Castle, and mistress of all it (Contained.
16 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND.
CHAPTER III.
WHITHER IN THE TIME OF THOMAS, THIRD VISCOUNT, I HAD PRECEDED HIM AS PAGE TO ISABELLA.
Coming up to London again some short time after this re- treat, the Lord Castlewood despatched a retainer of his to a little cottage in the village of Ealing, near to London, where for some time had dwelt an old French refugee, by name Mr. Pastoureau, one of those whom the persecution of the Hugue- nots by the French king had brought over to this countr3\ With this old man lived a Uttle lad, who went by the name of Henry Thomas. He remembered to have lived in another place a short time before, near to London too, amongst looms and spinning-wheels, and a great deal of psalm-singing and church-going, and a whole colon}^ of Frenchmen.
There he had a dear, dear friend, who died, and whom he called Aunt. She used to visit him in his dreams sometimes ; and her face, though it was homeh', was a thousand times dearer to him than that of Mrs. Pastoureau, Bon Papa Pastou- reau's new wife, who came to live with him after aunt went away. And there, at Spittlefields, as it used to be called, lived Uncle George, who was a weaver too, but used to tell Harry that he was a little gentleman, and that his father was a captain, and his mother an angel.
When he said so, Bon Papa used to look up from the loom, where he was embroidering beautiful silk flowers, and say, " Angel ! she belongs to the Babylonish scarlet woman." Bon Papa was always talking of the scarlet woman. He had a little room where he always used to preach and sing h^^mns out of his great old nose. Little Harrj' did not like the preach- ing ; he liked better the fine stories which aunt used to tell him. Bon Papa's wife never told him pretty stories ; she quar- relled with Uncle George, and he went away.
After this, Harry's Bon Papa and his wife and two children of her own that she brought with her, came to live at Ealing. The new wife gave her children the best of everything, and Harrj- manj- a whipping, he knew not why. Besides blows, he got ill names from her, which need not be set down here, for the sake of old Mr. Pastoureau, who was still kind sometimes. The unhappiness of those days is long forgiven, though they
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 17
cast a shade of melanchol}^ over the child's youth, which will accompan}^ him, no doubt, to the end of his days : as those tender twigs are bent the trees grow afterward ; and he, at least, who has suffered as a child, and is not quite perverted in that early school of unhappiness, learns to be gentle and long- suffering with little children.
Ilarr}' was very glad when a gentleman dressed in black, on horseback, with a mounted servant behind him, came to fetch him awaj^ from Ealing. The noverca, or unjust step- mother, who had neglected him for her own two children, gave him supper enough the night before he went away, and plenty in the morning. She did not beat him once, and told the chil- dren to keep their hands off him. One was a girl, and Harry never could bear to strike a girl ; and the other was a boy, whom he could easily have beat, but he alwaj's cried out, when Mrs. Pastoureau came sailing to the rescue with arms like a flail. She onl}' washed Harry's face the day he went away ; nor ever so much as once boxed his ears. She whimpered rather when the gentleman in black came for the bo}- ; and old Mr. Pastoureau, as he gave the child his blessing, scowled over his shoulder at the strange gentleman, and grumbled out some- thing about Babylon and the scarlet lady. He was grown quite old, like a child almost. Mrs. Pastoureau used to wipe his nose as she did to the children. She was a great, big, hand- some young woman ; but, though she pretended to cr}', Harry thought 'twas only a sham, and sprung quite delighted upon the horse upon which the lacke}- helped him.
He was a Frenchman ; his name was Blaise. The child could talk to him in his own language perfectl}^ well : he knew it better than English indeed, having lived hitherto chiefly among French people : and being called the Little Frenchman b}^ other boys on Ealing Green. He soon learnt to speak Eng- lish perfectly, and to forget some of his French : children for- get easil3\ Some earlier and fainter recollections the child had of a different country ; and a town with tall white houses : and a ship. But these were quite indistinct in the boy's mind, as indeed the memor}^ of Ealing soon became, at least of much that he suffered there.
The lackey before whom he rode was very lively and volu- ble, and informed the bo}" that the gentleman riding before him was my lord's chaplain. Father Holt — that he was now to be called Master Harry Esmond — that my Lord Viscount Castle- wood was his parrain — that he was to live at the great house of Castlewood, in the province of shire, where he would see
18 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND.
Madame the Viscountess, who was a grand lady. And so, seated on a cloth before Blaise's saddle, Harry Esmond was brought to London, and to a fine square called Covent Garden, near to which his patron lodged.
Mr. Holt, the priest, took the child by the hand, and brought him to this nobleman, a grand languid nobleman in a great cap and flowered morning-gown, sucking oranges. He patted Harry on the head and gave him an orange.
" C'est bien 9a," he said to the priest after Gjing the child, and the gentleman in black shrugged his shoulders.
" Let Blaise take him out for a holiday," and out for a holi- da}' the boy and the valet went. Harry went jumping along ; he was glad enough to go.
He will remember to his life's end the dehghts of those da3-s. He was taken to see a play by Monsieur Blaise, in a house a thousand times greater and finer than the booth at Ealing Fair — and on the next happy day they took water on the river, and Harry saw London Bridge, with the houses and booksellers' shops thereon, looking like a street, and the Tower of London, with the Armor, and the great lions and bears in the moat — all under company of Monsieur Blaise.
Presently, of an early morning, all the part}^ set forth for the countrj^, namely, my Lord Viscount and the other gentle- man ; Monsieur Blaise arM Harry on a pillion behind them, and two or three men with pistols leading the baggage-horses. And all along the road the Frenchman told little Hany stories of brigands, which made the child's hair stand on end, and terrified him ; so that at the great gloomy inn on the road where the}' lay, he besought to be allowed to sleep in a room with one of the servants, and was compassionated by Mr. Holt, the gentleman who travelled with my lord, and who gave the child a little bed in his chamber.
His artless talk and answers very likely inclined this gentle- man in the boy's favor, for next day Mr. Holt said Hany should ride behind him, and not with the French lackj^ ; and all along the journe}^ put a thousand questions to the child — as to his foster-brother and relations at Ealing ; what his old grandfather had taught him ; what languages he knew ; whether he could read and write, and sing, and so forth. And Mr. Holt found that Harr}' could read and write, and possessed the two languages of French and English very well ; and when he asked Harry about singing, the lad broke out with a hymn to the tune of Dr. Martin Luther, which set Mr. Holt a-laughing ; and even caused his grand par rain in the laced hat and periwig
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOJ^D. 19
to langh too when Holt told him what the child was singing. For it appeared that Dr. Martin Luther's hymns were not sung in the churches Mr. Holt preached at.
"You must never sing that song an}^ more: do 3'ou hear, little mannikin ? " sa^'s my Lord Viscount, holding up a finger.
"But we will try and teach you a better, Harry," Mr. Holt said ; and the child answered, for he was a docile child, and of an affectionate nature, " That he loved pretty songs, and would tr}^ and learn an3'thing the gentleman would tell him." That day he so pleased the gentlemen by his talk, that they had him to dine with them at the inn, and encouraged him in his prattle ; and Monsieur Blaise, with whom he rode and dined the day before, waited upon him now.
"'Tis well, 'tis well!" said Blaise, that night (in his own language) when the}- la}- again at an inn. " We are a little lord here ; we are a little lord now : we shall see what we are when we come to Castlewood, where my lady is."
"When shall we come to Castlewood, Monsieur Blaise?" says Harry.
^^ Par bleu ! my lord does not press himself," Blaise says, with a grin; and, indeed, it seemed as if his lordship was not in a great hurry, for he spent three days on that journey which Harry Esmond hath often since ridden in a dozen hours. For the last two of the days Harry rode with the priest, who was so kind to him, that the child had grown to be quite fond and familiar with him by tlie journey's end, and had scarce a thought in his little heart which by that time he had not confided to his new friend.
At length, on the third day, at evening, they came to a village standing on a green with elms round it, very pretty to look at ; and the people there all took off their hats, and made curtsies to my Lord Viscount, who bowed to them all lan- guidly ; and there was one portly person that wore a cassock and a broad-leafed hat, who bowled lower than any one — and with this one both my lord and Mr. Holt had a few words. "This, Harry, is Castlewood church," says Mr. Holt, "and this is the pillar thereof, learned Doctor Tusher. Take off your hat, sirrah, and salute Dr. Tusher ! "
" Come up to supper, Doctor," says my lord ; at which the Doctor made another low bow, and the party moved on towards a grand house that was before them, with many gray towers and vanes on them, and windows flaming in the sunshine ; and a great army of rooks, wheeling over their heads, made for the
20 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOXD.
woods behind the house, as Harr}^ saw ; and Mr. Holt told him that they lived at Castlewood too.
The}" came to the house, and passed under an arch into a court-yard, with a fountain in the centre, where many men came and held my lord's stirrup as he descended, and paid great respect to Mr. Holt likewise. And the child thought that the servants looked at him curiously, and smiled to one another — and he recalled what Blaise had said to him when the}' were in London, and Harry had spoken about his godpapa, when the Frenchman said, '^ Parhleu^ one sees well that my lord is 3'our godfather ; " words wliereof the poor lad did not know the meaning then, though he apprehended the truth in a very short time afterwards, and learned it, and thought of it with no small feehng of shame.
Taking Harry by the hand as soon as they were both de- scended from their horses, Mr. Holt led him across the court, and under a low door to rooms on a level with the ground ; one of which Father Holt said was to be the boy's chamber, the other on the other side of the passage being the Father's own ; and as soon as the little man's face was washed, and the Father's own dress arranged, Harr3''s guide took him once more to the door b}' which m}' lord had entered the hall, and up a stair, and through an ante-room to my ladj^'s drawing-room — an apartment than which Harr}^ thought he had never seen anj'thing more grand — no, not in the Tower of London which he had just visited. Indeed, the chamber was richl}^ orna- mented in the manner of Queen Elizabeth's time, with great stained windows at either end, and hangings of tapestry, which the sun shining through the colored glass painted of a thousand hues ; and here in state, by the fire, sat a lad}' to whom the priest took up Harrj', who was indeed amazed by her ap- pearance.
M}^ Lad}' Viscountess's face was daubed with white and red up to the eyes, to which the paint gave an unearthly glare : she had a tower of lace on her head, under which was a bush of black curls — borrowed curls — so that no wonder little Harry Esmond was scared when he was first presented to her — the kind priest acting as master of the ceremonies at that solemn introduction — and he stared at her with eyes almost as great as her own, as he had stared at the player woman who acted the wicked tragedy-queen, when the players came down to Ealing Fair. She sat in a great chair by the fire-corner; in her lap was a spaniel-dog that barked furiously ; on a little table by her was her ladyship's snuff-box and her sugar-plum
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 21
box. She wore a dress of black velvet, and a petticoat of flame-colored brocade. She had as man}'- rings on her fingers as the old woman of Banbury Cross ; and prett}^ small feet which she was fond of showing, with great gold clocks to her stockings, and white pantofles with red heels ; and an odor of musk was shook out of her garments whenever she moved or quitted the room, leaning on her tortoise-shell stick, little Fury barking at her heels.
Mrs. Tusher, the parson's wife, was with my lady. She had been waiting-woman to her ladyship in the late lord's time, and, having her soul in that business, took naturally to it when the Viscountess of Castlewood returned to inhabit her father's house.
'' I present to 3'our ladyship your kinsman and little page of honor. Master Henry Esmond," Mr. Holt said, bowing lowly, with a sort of comical humility. '^ Make a pretty bow to my lady, Monsieur ; and then another little bow, not so low, to Madame Tusher — the fair priestess of Castlewood."
"Where I have lived and hope to die, sir," says Madame Tusher, giving a hard glance at the brat, and then at my lady.
Upon her the boy's whole attention was for a time directed. He could not keep his great eyes off from her. Since the Em- press of Ealing, he had seen nothing so awful.
"Does m}' appearance please you, little page?" asked the lady.
" He would be very hard to please if it didn't," cried Madame Tusher.
" Have done, you sill}^ Maria," said Lad}- Castlewood.
"Where Em attached, Em attached, Madame — and Ed die rather than not say so."
" Je meurs oil je m' attache," Mr. Holt said with a polite grin. "The ivy says so in the picture, and clings to the oak like a fond parasite as it is."
" Parricide, sir ! " cries Mrs. Tusher.
"Hush, Tusher — you are alwa3's bickering with Father Holt," cried my lady. " Come and kiss my hand, child ; " and the oak held out a branch to little Harry Esmond, who took and dutifully kissed the lean old hand, upon the gnarled knuckles of which there glittered a hundred rings.
" To kiss that hand would make many a pretty fellow happj' ! " cried Mrs. Tusher: on which my lady crying out, "Go, you foolish Tusher ! " and tapping her with her great fan, Tusher ran forward to seize her hand and kiss it. Fury arose and barked furiously at Tusher ; and Father Holt looked on at this queer scene, with arch, grave glances.
22 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND.
The awe exhibited by the little boy perhaps pleased the lady to whom this artless flattery was bestowed : for having gone down on his knee (as Father Holt had directed him, and the mode then was) and performed his obeisance, she said, "Page Esmond, my groom of the chamber will inform you what your duties are, when you wait upon my lord and me ; and good Father Holt will instruct you as becomes a gentleman of our name. You will pa}^ him obedience in everything, and I pray 3-0U may grow to be as learned and as good as your tutor."
The lad}' seemed to have the greatest reverence for Mr. Holt, and to be more afraid of him than of anything else in the world. If she was ever so angry, a word or look from Father Holt made her calm : indeed he had a vast power of subjecting those who came near him ; and, among the rest, his new pupil gave him- self up with an entire confidence and attachment to the good Father, and became his willing slave almost from the first moment he saw him.
He put his small hand into the Father's as he walked away from his first presentation to his mistress, and asked many ques- tions in his artless childish way. " Who is that other woman ? " he asked. " She is fat and round ; she is more pretty than my Lad}" Castlewood."
" She is Madame Tusher, the parson's wife of Castlewood. She has a son of 3"0ur age, but bigger than 3"ou."
" Why does she like so to kiss my lad^^'s hand. It is not good to kiss."
"Tastes are diflferent, little man. Madame Tusher is at- tached to my lady, having been her waiting-woman before she was married, in the old lord's time. She married Doctor Tusher the chaplain. The English household divines often marry the waiting-women."
" You will not marry the French woman, will you? I saw her laughing with Blaise in the buttery."
' ' I belong to a church that is older and better than the English church," Mr. Holt said (making a sign whereof Es- mond did not then understand the meaning, across his breast and forehead) ; " in our church the clergy do not marry. You will understand these things better soon."
" Was not Saint Peter the head of your church? — Dr. Rab- bits of Ealing told us so."
The Father said, " Yes, he was."
" But Saint Peter was married, for we heard only last Sun- day that his wife's mother lay sick of a fever." On which the Father again laughed, and said he would understand this too
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 23
better soon, and talked of other things, and took away Harry Esmond, and showed him the great old house which he had come to inhabit.
It stood on a rising green hill, with woods behind it, in which were rooks' nests, where the birds at morning and return- ing home at evening made a great cawing. At the foot of the hill was a river, with a steep ancient bridge crossing it ; and beyond that a large pleasant green flat, where the village of Castlewood stood, and stands, with the church in tlie midst, the parsonage hard b}' it, the inn with the blacksmith's forge beside it, and the sign of the "Three Castles" on the elm. The London road stretched away towards the rising sun, and to the west were swelUng hills and peaks, behind which many a time Harry Esmond saw the same sun setting, that he now looks on thousands of miles away across the great ocean — in a new Castlewood, by another stream, that bears, like the new country of wandering ^Eneas, the fond names of the land of his youth.
The Hall of Castlewood was built with two courts, whereof one onl}', the fountain-court, was now inhabited, the other hav- ing beeu battered down in the CromwelUan wars. In the foun- tain-court, still in good repair, was the great hall, near to the kitchen and butteries. A dozen of living-rooms looking to the north, and communicating with the little chapel that faced east- wards and the buildings stretching from that to the main gate, and with the hall (which looked to the west) into the court now dismantled. This court had been the most magnificent of the two, until the Protector's cannon tore down one side of it be- fore the place was taken and stormed. The besiegers entered at the terrace under the clock-tower, slaying every man of the garrison, and at their head my lord's brother, Francis Esmond.
The Restoration did not bring enough money to the Lord Castlewood to restore this ruined part of his house ; where were the morning parlors, above them the long music-galler}', and before which stretched the garden-terrace, where, however, the flowers grew again which the boots of the Roundheads had trodden in their assault, and which was restored without much cost, and only a little care, by both ladies who succeeded the second viscount in the government of this mansion. Round the terrace-garden was a low wall with a wicket leading to the wooded height beyond, that is called Cromwell's Battery to this day.
Young Harry Esmond learned the domestic part of his duty, which was easy enough, from the groom of her ladyship's cham-
24 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND.
ber : serving the Countess, as the custom commonly was in his boyhood, as page, waiting at her chair, bringing her scented water and the silver basin after dinner — sitting on her car- riage-step on state occasions, or on public days introducing her company to her. This was chiefly of the Catholic gentr}-, of whom there were a pretty many in the countr}^ and neigh- boring city ; and who rode not seldom to Castlewood to par- take of the hospitalities there. In the second year of their residence, the company seemed especially to increase. My lord and my lady were seldom without visitors, in whose society it was curious to contrast the difference of behavior between Father Holt, the director of the family, and Doctor Tusher, the rector of the parish — Mr. Holt moving amongst the very high- est as quite their equal, and as commanding them all ; while poor Doctor Tusher, whose position was indeed a difficult one, having been chaplain once to the Hall, and still to the Protes- tant servants there, seemed more like an usher than an equal, and alwa3's rose to go away after the first course.
Also there came in these times to Father Holt many private visitors, whom, after a little, Henry Esmond had little difficulty in recognizing as ecclesiastics of the Father's persuasion, what- ever their dresses (and they adopted all) might be. These were closeted with the Father constantly, and often came and rode away without paying their devoirs to my lord and lad}' — to the (ady and lord rather — his lordship being little more than a <iipher in the house, and entirelj^ under his domineering partner. A little fowling, a little hunting, a great deal of sleep, and a long time at cards and table, carried through one da}' after another with his lordship. When meetings took place in this second year, which often would happen with closed doors, the page found my lord's sheet of paper scribbled over with dogs and horses, and 'twas said he had much ado to keep himself awake at these councils : the Countess ruling over them, and he act- ing as little more than her secretary.
Father Holt began speedil}' to be so much occupied with these meetings as rather to neglect the education of the little lad who so gladly put himself under the kind priest's orders. At first the}' read much and regularly, both in Latin and French ; the Father not neglecting in anything to impress his faith upon his pupil, but not forcing him violently, and treat- ing him with a delicacy and kindness which surprised and at- tached the child, always more easily won by these methods than by any severe exercise of authority. And his delight in their walks was to tell Harry of the glories of his order, of its
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 25
mart3TS and heroes, of its Brethren converting the heathen by mjTiads, traversing the desert, facing the stake, ruUng the courts and councils, or braving the tortures of kings ; so that Harry Esmond thought that to belong to the Jesuits was the greatest prize of life and bravest end of ambition ; the greatest career here, and in heaven the surest reward ; and began to long for the da}', not onl}' when he should enter into the one church and receive his lirst communion, but when he might join that wonderful brotherhood, which w^as present throughout all the world, and which numbered the wisest, the bravest, the highest born, the most eloquent of men among its members. Father Holt bade him keep his views secret, and to hide them as a great treasure which would escape him if it was revealed ; and, proud of this confidence and secret vested in him, the lad became fondly attached to the master who initiated him into a mystery so wonderful and awful. And when little Tom Tusher, his neighbor, came from school for his holiday, and said how he, too, was to be bred up for an Enghsh priest, and would get what he called an exhi!3ition from his school, and then a college scholarship and fellowship, and then a good living — it tasked young Harry Esmond's powers of reticence not to say to his young companion, " Church ! priesthood ! fat living ! My dear Tommy, do you call yours a church and a priesthood ? What is a fat living compared to converting a hundred thousand heathens by a single sermon? What is a scholarship at Trin- it}^ by the side of a crown of martyrdom, with angels awaiting 3'ou as your head is taken off? Could your master at school sail over the Thames on his gown? Have you statues in 3'our church that can bleed, speak, w^alk, and cry? My good Tommy, in dear Father Holt's church these things take place every day. You know Saint Philip of the Willows appeared to Lord Castlewood, and caused him to turn to the one true church. No saints ever come to you." And Harry Esmond, because of his promise to Father Holt, hiding awa}^ these treasures of faith from T. Tusher, delivered himself of them nevertheless simpl}^ to Father Holt ; who stroked his head, smiled at him with his inscrutable look, and told him that he did w^ell to meditate on these great things, and not to talk of them except under direction.
26 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND.
CHAPTER ly.
1 AM PLACED UNDER A POPISH PRIEST AND BRED TO THAT RELIGION. — VISCOUNTESS CASTLEWOOD.
Had time enough been given, and his childish incHnations been properly nurtured, Harry Esmond had been a Jesuit priest ere he was a dozen years older, and might have finished his days a martyr in China or a victim on Tower Hill: for, in the few months they spent together at Castlewood, Mr. Holt ob- tained an entire mastery over the boy's intellect and affections ; and had brought him to think, as indeed Father Holt thought with all his heart too, that no life was so noble, no death so desirable, as that which many brethren of his famous order were read3' to undergo. B}^ love, b}' a brightness of wit and good-humor that charmed all, by an authority which he knew how to assume, by a mystery and silence about him which in- creased the child's reverence for him, he won Harry's absolute, fealty, and would have kept it, doubtless, if schemes greater and more important than a poor little boy's admission into orders had not called him awa}^
After being at home for a few months in tranquillity (if theirs might be called tranquil lit}", which was, in truth, a constant bickering), m}' lord and lad}^ left the country for London, tak- ing their director with them : and his little pupil scarce ever shed more bitter tears in his life than he did for nights after the first parting with his dear friend, as he la}" in the lonely chamber next to that which the Father used to occupy. He and a few domestics were left as the only tenants of the great house : and, though Harry sedulously did all the tasks which the Father set him, he had many hours unoccupied, and read in the library, and bewildered his little brains with the great books he found there.
After a while, the little lad grew accustomed to the loneliness of the place ; and in after days remembered this part of his life as a period not unhappy. When the family was at London the whole of the establishment travelled thither with the exception of the porter — who was, moreover, brewer, gardener, and wood- man— and his wife and children. These had their lodging in »fie gate-house hard by, with a door into the court ; and a win- tsow looking out on the green was the Chaplain's room ; and
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 27
next to this a small chamber where Father Holt had his books, and Harry Esmond his sleeping closet. The side of the house facing the east had escaped the guns of the CromvvelUans, whose battery was on the height facing the western court ; so that this eastern end bore few marks of demolition, save in the chapel, where the painted windows surviving Edward the Sixth had been broke by the Commonwealthmen. In Father Holt's time little Harr}^ Esmond acted as his familiar and faithful little servitor ; beating his clothes, folding his vestments, fetching his water from the well long before daylight, ready to run any- where for the service of his beloved priest. When the Father was away, he locked his private chamber ; but the room where the books were was left to little Harry, who, but for the society of this gentleman, was little less solitary wben Lord Castlewood was at home.
The French wit saith that a hero is none to his valet-de- chambre, and it required less quick e3'es than my lady's little page was naturally endowed with, to see that she had many qualities by no means heroic, however much Mrs. Tusher might flatter and coax her. When Father Holt was not b}', who ex- ercised an entire authority over the pair, my lord and my lady (quarrelled and abused each other so as to make the servants laugh, and to frighten the little page on dutv. The poor boy trembled before his mistress, who called him by a hundred ugly names, who made nothing of boxing his ears, and tilting the silver basin in his face which it was his business to present to her after dinner. She hath repaired, by subsequent kindness to him, these severities, which it must be owned made his child- hood very unhappy. She was but unhappy herself at this time, poor soul ! and I suppose made her dependants lead her own sad life. I think my lord was as much afraid of her as her page was, and the only person of the household who mastered her was Mr. Holt. Harry was oyAj too glad when the Father dined at table, and to slink away and prattle with him after- wards, or read with him, or walk with him. Luckily my Lady Viscountess did not rise till noon. Heaven help the poor wait- ing-woman who had charge of her toilet ! I have often seen the poor wretch come out with red eyes from the closet where those long and mysterious rites of her ladyship's dress were performed, and the backgammon-box locked up with a rap on Mrs. Tusher's fingers when she played ill, or the game was going the wrong way.
Blessed be the king who introduced cards, and the kind inventors of piquet and cribbage, for they employed six hours
28 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOJ^TD.
at least of her ladyship's day, during which her family was pretty eas3\ Without this occupation my lad}^ frequently- declared she should die. Her dependants one after another relieved guard — 'twas rather a dangerous post to play with her ladyship — and took the cards turn about. Mr. Holt would sit with her at piquet during hours together, at which time she behaved herself properly ; and as for Dr. Tusher, I believe he would have left a parishioner's dying bed, if summoned to play a rubber with his patroness at Castlewood. Sometimes, when they were pretty comfortable together, ni}' lord took a hand. Besides these my lady had her faithful poor Tusher, and one, two, three gentlewomen whom Harry Esmond could recollect in his time. They could not bear that genteel service ver}' long ; one after another tried and failed at it. These and the house- keeper, and little Harry Esmond, had a table of their own. Poor ladies ! their life was far harder than the page's. He was sound asleep, tucked up in his little bed, whilst they were sit- ting by her ladyship reading her to sleep, with the "News Letter" or the " Grand Cyrus." My lady used to have boxes of new plays from London, and Harry was forbidden, under the pain of a whipping, to look into them. I am afraid he deserved the penalty pretty often, and got it sometimes. Father Holt applied it twice or thrice, when he caught the young scapegrace with a delightful wicked comedy of Mr. Shadwell's or Mr. W^'cherley's under his pillow.
These, when he took any, were my lord's favorite reading. But he was averse to much stud}', and, as his little page fancied, to much occupation of an}" sort.
It always seemed to young Harry Esmond that m}' lord treated him with more kindness when his lady was not present, and Lord Castlewood would take the lad sometimes on his little journeys a-hunting or a-birding ; he loved to play at cards and tric-trac with him, which games the boy learned to pleasure his lord : and was growing to like him better dailj', showing a spe- cial pleasure if Father Holt gave a good report of him, patting him on the head, and promising that he would provide for the boy. However, in my lady's presence, my lord showed no such marks of kindness, and affected to treat the lad roughly, and rebuked him sharply for little faults, for which he in a manner asked pardon of young Esmond when they were private, sa3'ing if he did not speak roughly, she would, and his tongue was not such a bad one as his lady's — a point whereof the boy, 3'oung as he was, was verj' well assured.
Great public events were happening all this while, of which
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 29
the simple young page took little count. But one daj^ riding into the neighboring town on the step of my lady's coach, his lordship and she and Father Holt being inside, a great mob of people came hooting and jeering round the coach, bawling out ''The Bishops for ever!" "Down with tlie Pope!" "No Popery ! no Popery ! Jezebel, Jezebel ! " so that my lord began to laugh, m}^ lady's e3'es to roll with anger, for she was as bold as a lioness, and feared nobody ; whilst Mr. Holt, as Esmond saw from his place on the step, sank back with rather an alarmed face, crying out to her ladj'ship, "For God's sake, madam, do not speak or look out of window ; sit still." But she did not obey this prudent injunction of the Father ; she thrust her head out of the coach window, and screamed out to the coachman, " Flog your way through them, the brutes, James, and use your whip ! "
The mob answered with a roaring jeer of laughter, and fresh cries of " Jezebel ! Jezebel ! " My lord only laughed the more : he was a languid gentleman : rtothing seemed to excite him commonlj', though 1 have seen him cheer and halloo tlie hounds ver}' briskly, and his face (which was generally very yellow and calm) grow quite red and cheerful during a burst over the Downs after a hare, and laugh, and swear, and huzzali at a cockfight, of which sport he was ver}^ fond. And now, when the mob began to hoot his lady, he laughed with something of a mis- chievous look, as though he expected sport, and thought that she and they were a match.
James the coachman was more afraid of his mistress than the mob, probably, for he whipped on his horses as he was bidden, and the post-bo}' that rode with the first pair (nw lady always rode with her coach-and-six,) gave a cut of his thong over the shoulders of one fellow who put his hand out towards the leading horse's rein.
It was a market-da}', and the country-people were all as- sembled with their baskets of poultry, eggs, and such things ; the postilion had no sooner lashed the man who would have taken hold of his horse, but a great cabbage came whirling like a bombshell into the carriage, at which my lord laughed more, for it knocked my lady's fan out of her hand, and plumped into Father Holt's stomach. Then came a shower of carrots and potatoes.
"For Heaven's sake be still!" saj's Mr. Holt; " we are not ten paces from the ' Bell ' archway, w^here they can shut the gates on us, and keep out this canaille. ^^
The little page was outside the coach on the step, and a
30 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND.
fellow in the crowd aimed a potato at him, and hit him in the ej'e, at which the poor little wretch set up a shout ; the man laughed, a great big saddler's apprentice of the town. " Ah !
you d Uttle 3'elling Popish bastard," he said, and stooped
to pick up another ; the crowd had gathered quite between the horses and the inn door by this time, and the coach was brought to a dead stand-still. My lord jumped as briskly as a bo}' out of the door on his side of the coach, squeezing little Harry behind it ; had hold of the potato-thrower's collar in an instant, and the next moment the brute's heels were in the air, and he fell on the stones with a thump.
" You hulking coward ! " says he ; " you pack of screaming blackguards ! how dare you attack children, and insult women? Fling another shot at that carriage, yon sneaking pigskin cob- bler, and by the Lord I'll send my rapier through you ! "
Some of the mob cried, '' Huzzah, my lord ! " for they knew him, and the saddler's man was a known bruiser, near twice as big as my lord Viscount. *
'^ Make way there,"* sa3^s he (he spoke in a high shrill voice, but with a great air of authority). " Make way, and let her ladyship's carriage i:)ass." The men that were between the coach and the gate of the " Bell" actually did make wa^^, and the horses went in, mj' lord walking after them with his hat on his head.
As he was going in at the gate, through which the coach had just rolled, another cry begins, of "No Popery — no Papists ! " My lord turns round and faces them once more.
" God save the King ! " says he at the highest pitch of his voice. "Who dares abuse the King's religion? You, you d — d psalm-singing cobbler, as sure as I'm a magistrate of this count}^ I'll commit you ! " The fellow shrank back, and my lord retreated with all the honors of the day. But when the little flurry caused by the scene was over, and the flush passed off his face, he relapsed into his usual languor, trifled with his little dog, and yawned when mj' lady spoke to him.
This mob was one of many thousands that were going about the country at that time, huzzahing for the acquittal of the seven bishops who had been tried just then, and about whom little Harry Esmond at that time knew scarce anything. It was Assizes at Hexton, and there was a great meeting of the gentry at the " Bell ; " and my lord's people had their new liveries on, and Harry a little suit of blue and silver, which he wore upon occasions of state ; and the gentlefolks came round and talked to my lord : and a judge in a red gown, who seemed a very
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 31
great personage, especially complimented him and my lady, who was might}' grand. Harr}' remembers her train borne up by her gentlewoman. There was ah assembly' and ball at the great room at the ''Bell," and other young gentlemen of the county famiUes looked on as he did. One of them jeered him for his black eye, which was swelled by the potato, and another called him a bastard, on which he and Harrj' fell to fisticuffs. My lord's cousin. Colonel Esmond of Walcote, was there, and separated the two lads — a great tall gentleman, with a hand- some good-natured face. The bo}' did not know how neai-l}' in after-life he should be allied to Colonel Esmond, and how much kindness he should have to owe him.
There was little love between the two families. M}^ lady used not to spare Colonel Esmond in talking of him, for reasons which have been hinted already ; but about which, at his tender age, Henry Esmond could be expected lo know nothing.
Very soon afterwards, my lord and lad}' went to London with Mr. Holt, leaving, however-, the page behind them. The little man had the great house of Castlewood to himself; or between him and the housekeeper, Mrs. Worksop, an old lady who was a kinswoman of the family in some distant waj', and a Protestant, but a staunch Tory and king's-man, as all the Esmonds were. He used to go to school to Dr. Tusher when he was at home, though the Doctor was much occupied too. There was a great stir and commotion everywhere, even in the little quiet village of Castlewood, whither a party of people came from the town, who would have broken Castlewood Chapel windows, but the village people turned out, and even old Sieve- right, the republican blacksmith, along with them : for my lad}', though she was a Papist, and had man}' odd ways, was kind to the tenantry, and there was always a plenty of beef, and blan- kets, and medicine for the poor at Castlewood Hall.
A kingdom was changing hands whilst my lord and lady were away. King James was flying, the Dutchmen were com- ing ; awful stories about them and the Prince of Orange used old Mrs. Worksop to tell to the idle little page.
He liked the solitude of the great house very well ; he had all the play-books to read, and no Father Holt to whip him, and a hundred childish pursuits and pastimes, without doors and within, which made this time very pleasant.
32 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND.
CHAPTER V.
MY SUPERIORS ARE ENGAGED IN PLOTS FOR THE RESTORATION OF KING JAMES II.
Not having been able to sleep, for thinking of some lines for eels which he had placed the night before, the lad was lying in his little bed, waiting for the hour when the gate would be open, and he and his comrade, John Lockwood, the porter's son, might go to the pond and see what fortune had brought them. At daybreak John was to awaken him, but his own eagerness for the sport had served as a reveillez long since — so long, that it seemed to him as if the day never would come.
It might have been four o'clock when he heard the door of the opposite chamber, the Chaplain's room, open, and the voice of a man coughing in the passage. Harry jumped up, thinking for certain it was a robber, or hoping perhaps for a ghost, and, flinging open his own door, saw before him the Chaplain's door open, and a light inside, and a figure standing in the doorway, in the midst of a great smoke which issued from the room.
"Who's there?" cried out the boy, who was of a good spirit.
" Silentiiim ! " whispered the other ; " 'tis I, my boy ! " and, holding his hand out, Harry had no difficulty in recognizing his master and friend. Father Holt. A curtain was over the window of the Chaplain's room that looked to the court, and Harry saw that the smoke came from a great flame of papers which were burning in a brazier when he entered the Chaplain's room. After giving a hastj^ greeting and blessing to the lad, who was charmed to see his tutor, the Father continued the burning of his papers, drawing them from a cupboard over the mantel-piece wall, which Harrj' had never seen before.
Father Holt laughed, seeing the lad's attention fixed at once on this hole. " That is right, Harry," he said ; '' faithful little famuli, see all and say nothing. You are faithful, I know."
" I know I would go to the stake for 3'ou," said Harry.
" I don't want 3'our head," said the Father, patting it kindly ; " all you have to do is to hold j'our tongue. Let us burn these papers, and say nothing to anybody. Should you like to read them?"
HaiTy Esmond blushed, and held down his head; he had
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 33
looked as the fact was, and without thinking, at the paper before him ; and though he had seen it, could not understand a word of it, the letters being quite clear enough, but quite without meaning. The}^ burned the papers, beating down the ashes in a brazier, so that scarce any traces of them remained.
Hany had been accustomed to see Father Holt in more dresses than one ; it not being safe, or worth the danger, for Popish ecclesiastics to wear their proper dress ; and he was, in consequence, in no wise astonished that the priest should now appear before him in a riding-dress, with large buff leather boots, and a feather to his hat, plain, but such as gentlemen wore.
"You know the secret of the cupboard," said he, laughing, "and must be prepared for other mysteries;" and he opened — but not a secret cupboard this time — only a wardrobe, which he usually kept locked, and from which he now took out two or three dresses and perruques of different colors, and a couple of swords of a pretty make (Father Flolt was an ex- pert practitioner with the small-sword, and every day, whilst he was at home, he and his pupil practised this exercise, in which the lad became a very great proficient) , a military coat and cloak, and a farmer's smock, and placed them in the large hole over the mantel-piece from which the papers had been taken.
"If the}' miss the cupboard," he said, "they will not find these ; if they find them, the3''ll tell no tales, except that Father Holt wore more suits of clothes than one. All Jesuits do. You know what deceivers we are, Harry."
Harr}' was alarmed at the notion that his friend was about to leave him; but "No," the priest said, "I may very likely come back with mj' lord in a few days. We are to be tolerated ; we are not to be persecuted. But the}" ma}' take a fancy to pay a visit at Castlewood ere our return ; and, as gentlemen of my cloth are suspected, they might choose to examine my papers, which concern nobody — at least not them." And to this day, whether the papers in cipher related to politics, or to the affairs of that mysterious society whereof Father Holt was a member, his pupil, Harry Esmond, remains in entire igno- rance.
The rest of his goods, his small wardrobe, &c. Holt left untouched on his shelves and in his cupboard, taking down — with a laugh, however — and flinging into the brazier, where he only half burned them, some theological treatises which he had been writing against the English divines. "And now,"
2
34 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND.
said he, " Henrj^, my son, 3'ou ma}^ testif}', with a safe con science, that you saw me burning Latin sermons the last time I was here before I went away to London ; and it will be day- break directlj^, and I must be away before Lockwood is stir- ring."
"Will not Lockwood let you out, sir?" Esmond asked. Holt laughed ; he was never more ga}^ or good-humored than when in the midst of action or danger.
"Lockwood knows nothing of my being here, mind 3'ou," he said; "nor would you, you little wretch! had 3'ou slept better. l"ou must forget that I have been here ; and now fare- well. Close the door, and go to j^our own room, and don't come out till — -stay, wh}^ should 3'ou not know one secret more? I know joii will never betray' me."
In the Chaplain's room were two windows ; the one looking into the court facing westwards to the fountain ; the other, a small casement strongly barred, and looking on to the green in front of the Hall. This window was too high to reach from the ground ; but, mounting on a buffet which stood beneath it, Father Holt showed me how, b}" pressing on the base of the window, the whole framework of lead, glass, and iron stanch- ions descended into a cavit\' worked below, from which it could be drawn and restored to its usual place from without ; a broken pane being purposelj^ open to admit the hand which was to work upon the spring of the machine.
"When I am gone," Father Holt said, " 3^ou may push awa3' the buffet, so that no one ma3^ fanc3^ that an exit has been made that wa3^ ; lock the door ; place the key — where shall we put the ke3' ? — under ' Chrysostom ' on the book-shelf ; and if any ask for it, say I keep it there, and told 3'ou where to find it, if you had need to go to m3^ room. The descent is eas3'" down the wall into the ditch ; and so, once more farewell, until I see thee again, m3' dear son." And with this the intrepid Father mounted the buffet with great agilit3' and briskness, stepped across the window, lifting up the bars and framework again from the other side, and onl3^ leaving room for Harr3' Esmond to stand on tiptoe and kiss his hand before the case- ment closed, the bars fixing as firml3' as ever, seemingly, in the stone arch overhead. When Father Holt next arrived at Castle wood, it was b3^ the public gate on horseback ; and he never so much as alluded to the existence of the private issue to Harr3^ except when he had need of a private messenger from within, for which end, no doubt, he had instructed his young pupil in the means of quitting the Hall.
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 35
Esmond, 3'oiing as he was, would have died sooner than betra}' his friend and master, as Mr. Holt well knew ; for he had tried the bo}' more than once, putting temptations in his wa}', to see whether he would ^deld to them and confess after- wards, or whether he would resist them, as he did sometimes, or whether he would lie, which he never did. Holt instructing the boy on this point, however, that if to keep silence is not to lie, as it certainh' is not, 3'et silence is, after all, equivalent to a negation — and therefore a downright No, in the interest of justice or j'our friend, and in repl}' to a question that may be prejudicial to either, is not criminal, but, on the contrary, praiseworthy ; and as lawful a wa}^ as the other of eluding a wrongful demand. For instance (saj^s he), suppose a good citizen, who had seen his Majesty take refuge there, had been asked, "Is King Charles up that oak-tree?" his dut\- would have been not to say. Yes — so that the Cromwellians should seize the king and murder him like his father — but No ; his Majesty being private in the tree, and therefore not to be seen there by loyal eyes : all which instruction, in religion and morals, as well as in the rudiments of the tongues and sciences, the bo}' took eagerl}' and with gratitude from his tutor. When, then. Holt was gone, and told Hany not to see him, it was as if he had never been. And he had this answer pat when he came to be questioned a few da3-s after.
The Prince of Orange was then at Salisbury, as 3'oung Es- mond learned from seeing Doctor Tusher in his best cassock (though the roads were mudd}', and he never was known to wear his silk, only his stuff one, a-horseback), with a great orange cockade in his broad-leafed hat, and Nahum, his clerk, ornamented with a like decoration. The Doctor was walking up and down in front of his parsonage, when little Esmond saw him, and heard him sa^' he was going to pay his duty to his Highness the Prince, as he mounted his pad and rode away with Nahum behind. The village people had orange cockades too, and his friend the blacksmith's laughing daughter pinned one into Harry's old hat, which he tore out indignantl}' when the}" bade him to cr}^ " God save the Prince of Orange and the Protestant religion ! " but the people onl}' laughed, for the}' liked the boj^ in the village, where his solitarj^ condition moved the general pit}', and where he found friendly welcomes and faces in many houses. Father Holt had many friends there too, for he not only would light the blacksmith at theology, never losing his temper, but laughing the whole time in his pleasant way ; but he cured him of an ague with quinquina,
36 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND.
and was always ready with a kind word for any man that asked it, so that they said in the village 'twas a pity the two were Papists.
The Director and the Vicar of Castlewood agreed very well ; indeed, the former was a perfectly-bred gentleman, and it was the latter's business to agree with everybody. Doctor Tusher and the ladj^'s-maid, his spouse, had a bo}' who was about the age of little Esmond ; and there was such a friendship between the lads, as propinquity and tolerable kindness and good-humor on either side would be prett}' sure to occasion. Tom Tusher was sent off early, however, to a school in London, whither his father took him and a volume of sermons, in the first year of the reign of King James ; and Tom returned but once, a 3'ear afterwards, to Castlewood for many years of his scholastic and collegiate life. Thus there was less danger to Tom of a per- version of his faith bj^ the Director, who scarce ever saw him, than there was to Harry, who constantly was in the Vicar's company ; but as long as Harry's religion was his Majest3''s, and my lord's, and my lady's, the Doctor said gravel}', it should not be for him to disturb or disquiet him : it was far from him to say that his Majesty's Church was not a branch of the Cath- olic Church ; upon which Father Holt used, according to his custom, to laugh, and say that the Holy Church throughout all the world, and the noble Army of Martyrs, were very much obliged to the Doctor.
It was while Dr. Tusher was away at Salisbury that there came a troop of dragoons with orange scarfs, and quartered in Castlewood, and some of them came up to the Hall, where they took possession, robbing nothing however bej'ond the hen-house and the beer-cellar: and only insisting upon going through the house and looking for papers. The first room they asked to look at was Father Holt's room, of which Harry Esmond brought the key, and they opened the drawers and the cupboards, and tossed over the papers and clothes — but found nothing except his books and clothes, and the vestments in a box by themselves, with which the dragoons made merrj', to Harry Esmond's horror. And to the questions which the gentleman put to Harry, he replied that Father Holt was a ver}" kind man to him, and a very learned man, and Harry supposed would tell him none of his secrets if he had any. He was about eleven years old at this time, and looked as innocent as bo3'S of his age.
The family were away more than six months, and when they returned they were in the deepest state of dejection, for
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 37
King James had been banished, the Prince of Orange was on the throne, and the direst persecutions of those of the Cath- ohc faith were apprehended by my lad\', who said she did not believe that there was a word of trutli in the promises of tol- eration that Dutch monster made, or in a single word the per- jured wretch said. My lord and lad}' were in a manner prisoners in their own house ; so her ladyship gave the little page to know, who was by this time growing of an age to understand what was passing about him, and something of the characters of the people he lived with.
" We are prisoners," sa^'s she ; " in everjlhing but chains, we are prisoners. Let them come, let them consign me to dungeons, or strike off m}' head from this poor little throat" (and she clasped it in her long fingers). '' The blood of the Esmonds will always flow freely for their kings. We are not like the Churchills — the Judases, who kiss their master and betra}' him. We know how to suffer, how even to forgive in the royal cause " (no doubt it was to that fatal business of losing the place of Groom of the Posset to which her lady- ship alluded, as she did half a dozen times in the day). "Let the tj'rant of Orange bring his rack and his odious Dutch tortures — the beast I the wretch ! I spit upon him and defy him. Cheerfull}' will I lay this head upon the block ; cheerfull}' will I accompany my lord to the scaffold : we will cry ' God save King James I ' with our dying breath, and smile in the face of the executioner." And she told her page, a hundred times at least, of the particulars of the last interview which she had with his Majesty.
" I flung myself before m}^ liege's feet," she said, " at Salis- bur}'. I devoted m3'self — my husband — my house, to his cause. Perhaps he remembered old times, when Isabella Es- mond was 3'oung and fair ; perhaps he recalled the day when 'twas not 1 that knelt — at least he spoke to me with a voice that reminded me of days gone by. ' Egad ! ' said his Majesty, ' you should go to the Prince of Orange, if you want anything.' ' No, sire,' I replied, ' I would not kneel to a Usurper ; the Es- mond that would have served 3'our Majesty will nevei' be groom to a traitor's posset.' The royal exile smiled, even in the midst of his misfortune ; he deigned to raise me with words of conso- lation. The Viscount, mj^ husband, himself, could not be angry at the august salute with which he honored me ! "
The public misfortune had the effect of making my lord and his lady better friends than the}^ ever had been since their courtship. M}- lord Viscount had shown both loyalty and
38 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND.
spirit, when these were rare qualities in the dispirited part}' about the King ; and the praise he got elevated him not a little in his wife's good opinion, and perhaps in his own. He wakened up from the listless and supine life which he had been leading; was always riding to and fro in consultation with this friend or that of the King's ; the page of course knowing httle of his doings, but remarking only his greater cheerfulness and altered demeanor.
Father Holt came to the Hall constantly, but officiated no longer openly as chaplain ; he was always fetching and cai-ry- ing : strangers, military and ecclesiastic (Harry knew the lat- ter, though they came in all sorts of disguises), were contin- ually arriving and departing. My lord made long absences and sudden reappearances, using sometimes the means of exit which Father Holt had employed, though how often the little window in the Chaplain's room let in or let out my lord and his friends, Harry could not tell. He stoutly kept his promise to the Father of not prying, and if at midnight from his little room he heard noises of persons stirring in the next chamber, he turned round to the wall, and hid his curi- osity under his pillow until it fell asleep. Of course he could not help remarking that the priest's journeys were constant, and understanding by a hundred signs that some active though secret business employed him : what this was may pretty well be guessed b}- what soon happened to my lord.
No garrison or watch was put into Castlewood when my lord came back, but a Guard was in the village ; and one or other of them was always on the Green keeping a look-out on our great gate, and those who went out and in. Lock wood said that at night especially every person who came in or went out was watched by the outlying sentries. ' Twas lucky that we had a gate which their Worships knew nothing about. My lord and P'ather Holt must have made constant journeys at night : once or twice little Harrj' acted as their messenger and discreet little aide-de-camp. He remembers he was bidden to go into the village with his fishing-rod, enter certain houses, ask for a drink of water, and tell the good man, " There would be a horse-market at Newbury next Thursday," and so carry the same message on to the next house on his list.
He did not know what the message meant at the time, nor what was happening : which ma}" as well, however, for clear- ness' sake, be explained here. The Prince of Orange being gone to Ireland, where the King was ready to meet him with a great army, it was determined that a great rising of his Majes-
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 39
ty's part}^ should take place in this country ; and m}^ lord was to head the force in our count}'. Of late he had taken a greater lead in affairs than before, having the indefatigable Mr. Holt at his elbow, and my Lady Viscountess strongly urging him on ; and my Lord Sark being in the Tower a prisoner, and 8ir Wil- niot Crawley, of Queen's Crawley, having gone over to the Prince of Orange's side — my lord became the most considerable per- son in our part of the county for the affairs of the King.
It was arranged that the regiment of Scots Gra3S and Dra- goons, then quartered at Newbury, should declare for the King on a certain day, when likewise the gentry affected to his Maj- esty's cause were to come in with their tenants and adherents to Newbury, march upon the Dutch troops at Reading under Ginckel ; and, these overthrown, and their indomitable little master awa}' in Ireland, 'twas thought that our side might move on London itself, and a confident victory was predicted for the King.
As these great matters were in agitation, m}' lord lost his listless manner and seemed to gain health ; mj' lady did not scold him, Mr. Holt came to and fro, bus}' always ; and little Harry longed to have been a few inches taller, that he might draw a sword in this good cause.
One day, it must have been about the month of Jul}', 1690, my lord, in a great horseman's coat, under which Harry could see the shining of a steel breastplate he had on, called little Harry to him, put the hair off the child's forehead, and kissed him, and bade God bless ^im in such an affectionate way as he never had used before. Father Holt blessed him too, and then the}' took leave of my Lady Viscountess, who came from her apartment with a pocket-handkerchief to her eyes, and her gen- tlewoman and Mrs. Tusher supporting her. " Y"ou are going to — to ride," says she. "Oh, that I might come too! — but in my situation I am forbidden horse exercise."
" We kiss my Lady Marchioness's hand," says Mr. Holt.
" My lord, God speed you ! " she said, stepping up and em- bracing my lord in a grand manner. "Mr. Holt, I ask your blessing : " and she knelt down for that, whilst Mrs. Tusher tossed her head up.
Mr. Flolt gave the same benediction to the little page, who went down and held my lord's stirrups for him to mount ; there were two servants waiting there too — and they rode out of Castlewood gate.
As they crossed the bridge, Harry could see an officer in scarlet ride up touching his hat, and address my lord.
40 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND.
The party stopped, and came to some parley or discussion, which presently ended, my lord putting his horse into a canter after taking off his hat and making a bow to the officer, who rode alongside him step for step : the trooper accompanying him falling back, and riding with my lord's two men. The}' cantered over the Green, and behind the elms (m}' lord waving his hand, Harry thought), and so they disappeared. That evening we had a great panic, the cow-boy coming at milking- time riding one of our horses, which he had found grazing at the outer park-wall.
All night my Lady Viscountess was in a very quiet and sub- dued mood. She scarce found fault with anybody ; she played at cards for six hours ; little page Esmond went to sleep. He prayed for ni}' lord and the good cause before closing his e3'es.
It was quite in the gray of the morning when the porter'6 bell rang, and old Lockwood, waking up, let in one of my lord's servants, who had gone with him in the morning, ami who returned with a melancholy story. The officer who rod* up to my lord had, it appeared, said to him, that it was his duty to inform his lordship that he was not under arrest, but under surveillance, and to request him not to ride abroad that day.
My lord replied that riding was good for his health, that if the Captain chose to accompany him he was welcome ; and it was then that he made a bow, . and they cantered away together.
When he came on to Wansey Down, m}^ lord all of a sudden pulled up, and the party came to a halt at the cross- way.
"Sir," sa3's he to the officer, "we are four to two; will you be so kind as to take that road, and leave me go mine?"
" Your road is mine, my lord," sa3's the officer.
" Then — " says m}^ lord ; but he had no time to sa}' more, for the officer, drawing a pistol, snapped it at his lordship ; as at the same moment Father Holt, drawing a pistol, shot the officer through the head. It was done, and the man dead in an instant of time. The orderly, gazing at the officer, looked scared for a moment, and galloped awa}" for his life.
" Fire ! fire ! " cries out Father Holt, sending another shot after the trooper, but the two servants were too much surprised to use their pieces, and my lord calling to them to hold their hands, the fellow got away.
"Mr. Holt, qui pensait a tout^^ saj's Blaise, "gets off his horse, examines the pockets of the dead officer for papers, gives
THE IIISTOllY OF HENRY ESMOND. 41
his money to us two, and sa3's, ' The whio is drawn, M. le Mar- quis,' — why did he say Marquis to M. le Vicomte ? — 'we must drinli it.'
'' The poor gentleman's horse was a better one than that I rode," Blaise continues ; " Mr. Ilolt bids me get on him, and so I gave a cut to AVhitefoot, and she trotted home. We rode on towards Newbur}' ; we heard firing towards midda3' : at two o'clock a horseman comes up to us as we were giving our cattle water at an inn — and says, 'AH is done! The Ecossais de- clared an hour too soon — General Ginckel was down upon them.' The whole thing was at an end.
" 'And we've shot an officer on duty, and let his orderly escape,' says my lord.
"'Blaise,' says Mr. Holt, writing two lines on his table- book, one for my ladj' and one for you. Master Harry: 'you must go back to Castlewood, and deliver these,' and behold me."
And he gave Harry the two papers. He read that to himself, which onl}' said, " Burn the papers in the cupboard, burn this. You know nothing about anything." Hany read this, ran up stairs to his mistress's apartment, where her gentlewoman slept near to tlie door, made her bring a light and wake my lady, into whose hands he gave the paper. She was a wonderful object to look at in her night attire, nor had Harry ever seen the like.
As soon as she had the paper in her hand, Harry stepped back to the Chaplain's room, opened the secret cupboard over the fireplace, burned all the papers in it, and, as he had seen the priest do before, took down one of his reverence's manu- script sermons, and half burnt that in the brazier. By the time the papers were quite destroyed it was daylight. Harry ran back to his mistress again. Her gentlewoman ushered him again into her ladyship's chamber ; she told him (from behind her nuptial curtains) to bid the coach be got ready, and that she would ride away anon.
But the mysteries of her ladj'ship's toilet were as awfully long on this day as on an}^ other, and, long after the coach was ready, my lad}' was still attiring herself. And just as the Vis- countess stepped forth from her room, ready for departure, young John Lockwood comes running up from the village with news that a lawyer, three officers, and twenty or four-and-twenty soldiers, were marching thence upon the house. John had but two minutes the start of them, and, ere he had well told his stor}', the troop rode into our court-yard.
42 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESM0:N^D.
CHAPTER VI.
THE ISSUE OF THE PLOTS. THE DEATH OF THOMAS, THIRD VIS- COUNT OF CASTLEWOOD ; AND THE IMPRISONMENT OF HIS VISCOUNTESS.
At first my lad}^ was for dying like Marj^, Queen of Scots (to whom she fancied she bore a resemblance in beauty), and, stroking her scraggy neck, said, " The}^ will find Isabel of Castiewood is equal to her fate." Her gentlewoman, Victoire, persuaded her that her prudent course was, as she could not fl}', to receive the troops as though she suspected nothing, and that her chamber was the best place wherein to await them. So her black Japan casket, which Harry was to carry to tha coach, was taken back to her lad3^ship's chamber, whither the maid and mistress retired. Victoire came out presently, bid- dhig the page to say her ladj^ship was ill, confined to her bed with the rheumatism.
By this time the soldiers had reached Castiewood. Harry Esmond saw them from the window of the tapestry parlor ; a couple of sentinels were posted at the gate — a half-dozen more walked towards the stable ; and some others, preceded by their commander, and a man in black, a lawyer probably, were con- ducted b}^ one of the servants to the stair leading up to the part of the house which mj^ lord and lady inhabited.
So the Captain, a handsome kind man, and the law3-er, came through the ante-room to the tapestry parlor, and where now was nobodj' but young Harry Esmond, the page.
" Tell your mistress, little man," says the Captain, kindly, " that we must speak to her."
"• My mistress is ill a-bed," said the page.
" What complaint has she? " asked the Captain.
The boy said, " The rheumatism ! "
" Rheumatism ! that's a sad complaint," continues the good- natured Captain ; " and the coach is in the yard to fetch the Doctor, I suppose ? "
" I don't know," says the bo}'.
" And how long has her ladyship been ill? "
" I don't know," sa3's the boj'.
' ' When did my lord go away ? "
" Yesterday night."
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 43
''With Father Holt?"
" With Mr. Holt."
" And which wa}" did they travel?" asks the lawj^er
" They travelled without me," says the page.
" We must see Lady Castle wood."
''I have orders that nobod}- goes in to her lad3'ship — she is sick," saj's the page ; but at this moment Victoire came out. " Hush ! " says she ; and, as if not knowing that any one was near, " What's this noise ? " says she. " Is this gentleman the Doctor?"
'• Stuff! we must see Lad}- Castlewood," sa^^s the lawyer, pushing by.
The curtains of her ladyship's room were down, and the chamber dark, and she was in bed with a nightcap on her head, and propped up by her pillows, looking none the less ghastly because of the red which was still on her cheeks, and which she could not afford to forego.
" Is that the Doctor? " she said.
"There is no use with this deception, madam," Captain Westbury said (for so he was named). " M3' duty is to arrest the person of Thomas, Viscount Castlewood, a nonjuring peer — of Robert Tusher, Vicar of Castlewood — and Henrj' Holt, known under various other names and designations, a Jesuit priest, who officiated as chaplain here in the late king's time, and is now at the head of the conspiracy which was about to break out in this country against the authoiity of their Majesties King William and Queen Mary — and my orders are to search the house for such papers or traces of the conspiracy as may be found here. Your ladyship will please give me 3'our ke^'s, and it will be as well for yourself that you should help us, in every way, in our search."
"You see, sir, that I have the rheumatism, and cannot move," said the ladj^ looking uncommonl}- ghastl3^ as she sat up in her bed, where, however, she had had her cheeks painted, and a new cap put on, so that she might at least look her best when the officers came.
" I shall take leave to place a sentinel in the chamber, so that 3'our ladyship, in case you should wish to rise, ma3^ have an arm to lean on," Captain Westbur3^ said. " Your woman will show me wiiere I am to look ; " and Madame Victoire, chat- tering in her half French and half English jargon, opened while the Captain examined one drawer after another ; but, as Harr3" Esmond thought, rather carelessly, with a smile on his face, as if he was onl3^ conducting the examination for form's sake.
44 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND.
Before one of the cupboards Vietoire flung herself down, stretching out her arms, and, with a piercing shriek, cried, " Non, jamais, monsieur I'officier ! Jamais ! I will rather die than let you see this wardrobe."
But Captain Westbur}^ would open it, still with a smile on his face, which, v/hen the box was opened, turned into a fair burst of laughter. It contained — not papers regarding the conspirac}^ — but my lady's wigs, washes, and rouge-pots, and Vietoire said men were monsters, as the Captain went on with his perquisition. He tapped the back to see whether or no it was hollow, and as he thrust his hands into the cupboard, my lady from her bed called out, with a voice that did not sound like that of a very sick woman, "Is it your commission to insult ladies as well as to arrest gentlemen. Captain ? "
" These articles are only dangerous when worn by your lad3'ship," the Captain said, with a low bow, and a mock grin of politeness. '' I have found nothing which concerns the Gov- ernment as yet — onl}' the weapons with which beaut^^ is author- ized to kill," says he, pointing to a wig with his sword-tip. " We must now proceed to search the rest of the house."
' ' You are not going to leave that wretch in the room with me," cried my ladj^, pointing to the soldier.
"What can I do, madam? Somebod\' 3'ou must have to smooth your pillow and bring 3'our medicine — permit me — "
" Sir ! " screamed out m}- lad3\
"Madam, if you are too ill to leave the bed," the Captain then said, rather sternl3', "I must have in four of my men to lift you off in the sheet. I must examine this bed, in a word ; papers may be hidden in a bed as elsewhere ; we know that ver3^ well and * * * ."
Here it was her lad3^ship's turn to shriek, for the Captain, with his fist shaking the pillows and bolsters, at last came to "burn" as the3' sa3^ in the play of forfeits, and wrenching awa3" one of the pillows, said, " Look ! did not I tell 3'ou so? Here is a pillow stuffed with paper."
" Some villain has betrayed us," cried out my lady, sitting up in the bed, showing herself full dressed under her night-rail.
" And now 3'our lad3'ship can move, I am sure ; permit me to give 3'ou my hand to rise. You will have to travel for some distance, as far as Hexton Castle to-night. Will you have 3'our coach? Your woman shall attend you if you like — and the japan-box ? "
" Sir! you don't strike a man when he is down," said m3^ ladj', with some dignity : " can you not spare a woman? "
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 45
"Your ladj'ship must please to rise, and let me search the bed," said the Captain; "there is no more time to lose in bandying talk."
And, without more ado, the gaunt old woman got up. Harry Esmond recollected to the end of his life that figure, with the brocade dress and the white night-rail, and the gold-clocked red stockings, and white red-heeled shoes, sitting up in the bed, and stepping down from it. The trunks were ready packed for departure in her ante-room, and the horses ready harnessed in the stable : about all which the Captain seemed to know, by information got from some quarter or other ; and whence JEsmond could make a pretty shrewd guess in after- times, when Dr. Tusher complained that King AYilliam's gov- ernment had basely treated him for services done in that cause.
And here he may relate, though he was then too young to know all that was happening, what the papers contained, of which Captain Westbury had made a seizure, and which papers had been transferred from the japan-box to the bed when the officers arrived.
There was a list of gentlemen of the county in Father Holt's handwriting — Mr. Freeman's (King James's) friends — a similar paper being found among those of Sir John Fenwick and Mr. Coplestone, who suffered death for this conspiracy.
There was a patent conferring the title of Marquis of Es- mond on my Lord Castlewood and the heirs-male of his body ; his appointment as Lord-Lieutenant of the Count}', and Major- GeneraL*
There were various letters from the nobility and gentr^^ some ardent and some doubtful, in the King's service ; and (very luckily for him) two letters concerning Colonel Francis Esmond: one from Father Holt, which said, "I have been to see this Colonel at his house at Walcote, near to Wells, where he resides since the King's departure, and pressed him very eagerly in Mr. Freeman's cause, showing him the great advan- tage he would have by trading with that merchant, offering him large premiums there as agreed between us. But he says no : he considers Mr. Freeman the head of the firm, will never trade
* To have this rank of Marquis restored in the family had always been my Lady Viscountess's ambition ; and her old maiden aunt, Barbara Top- ham, the goldsmith's daughter, dying about this time, and leaving all her property to Lady Castlewood, I have heard that her ladyship sent almost the whole of the money to King James, a proceeding which so irritated my Lord Castlewood that he actually went to the parish church, and was only appeased by the Marquis's title which his exiled Majesty sent to him in return for the 15,000/. his faithful subject lent him.
46 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOXD.
against liim or embark with any other trading company, but considers his dut}^ was done when Mr. Freeman left England. This Colonel seems to care more for his wife and his beagles than for affairs. He asked me much about 3'oung H. E., ^ that bastard,' as he called him ; doubting my lord's intentions re- specting him. I reassured him on this head, stating what I knew of the lad, and our intentions respecting him, but with regard to Freeman he was inflexible."
And another letter was from Colonel Esmond to his kinsman, to sa}^ that one Captain Holton had been with him offering him large bribes to join, yon know who^ and sajing that the head of the house of Castlewood was deeply engaged in that quarter. But for his part he had broke his sword when the K. left the countr}^, and would never again fight in that quarrel. The P. of O. was a man, at least, of a noble courage, and his duty, and, as he thought, every Englishman's, was to keep the coun- try' quiet, and the French out of it : and, in fine, that he would have nothing to do with the scheme.
Of the existence of these two letters and the contents of the pillow. Colonel Frank Esmond, who became Viscount Castle- wood, told Henry Esmond afterwards, when the letters were shown to his lordship, who congratulated himself, as he had good reason, that he had not joined in the scheme which proved so fatal to manv concerned in it. But, naturally, the lad knew little about these circumstances when they happened under his e3'es : onl}^ being aware that his patron and his mistress were in some trouble, which had caused the flight of the one and the apprehension of the other by the oflScers of King William.
The seizure of the papers effected, the gentlemen did not pursue their further search through Castlewood House very rigorous^. Th^y examined Mr. Holt's room, being led thither by his pupil, who showed, as the Father had bidden him, the place where the key of his chamber la\', opened the door for the gentlemen, and conducted them into the room.
When the gentlemen came to the half-burned papers in the brazier, they examined them eagerly enough, and their young guide was a little amused at their perplexity.
" What are these? " says one.
" They're written in a foreign language," says the law3"er. "What are 3'ou laughing at, little whelp?" adds he, turning round as he saw the boy smile.
"Mr. Holt said thej^ were sermons," Harry said, "and bade me to burn them ; " which indeed was true of those papers.
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 47
*' Sermons indeed — it's treason, I would lay a wager," cries the law3'er.
" Egad ! it's Greek to me," saj's Captain Westbury. " Can you read it, little bo}'?"
"Yes, sir, a little," Harry said.
" Then read, and read in EngUsh, sir, on 3'our peril," said the lawyer. And Harry began to translate : —
" Hath not one of your own writers said, ' The children of Adam are now laboring as much as he himself ever did, about the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, shaking the boughs thereof, and seeking the fruit, being for the most part unmind- ful of the tree of life.' Oh blind generation ! 'tis this tree of knowledge to which the serpent has led 3'ou " — and here the bo}' was obliged to stop, the rest of the page being charred by the fire : and asked of the law3^er — " Shall I go on, sir?"
The lawyer said — " This boy is deeper than he seems : who knows that he is not laughing at us ? "
" Let's hav^e in Dick the Scholar," cried Captain Westbury, laughing : and he called to a trooper out of the window — " Ho, Dick, come in here and construe."
A thick- set soldier, with a square good-humored face, came In at the summons, saluting his officer.
" Tell us what is this, Dick," says the law^yer.
" My name is Steele, sir," says the soldier. " I may be Dick for m}^ friends, but I don't name gentlemen of your cloth amongst them."
"Well then, Steele."
" Mr. Steele, sir, if you please. When you address a gen- tleman of his Majesty's Horse Guards, be pleased not to be so familiar."
" I didn't know, sir," said the lawj'er.
"How shoukl you? I take it you are not accustomed to neet with gentlemen," sa^'s the trooper.
" Hold thy prate, and read that bit of paper," saj^s West- Dury.
" 'Tis Latin," says Dick, glancing at it, and again saluting his officer, " and from a sermon of Mr. Cudworth's," and he translated the words pretty much as Henr}" Esmond had ren- iered them.
" What a young scholar you are," says the Captain to the boy.
"Depend on't, he knows more than he tells," says the lawyer. " I think we will pack him off in the coach with old Jezebel."
48 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND.
"For construing a bit of Latin?" said the Captain, very good-naturedl\'.
" I would as lief go there as anj'where," Harry Esmond said, simpl}^ " for there is nobodj' to care for me."
There must have been something touching in the child's voice, or in this description of his solitude — for the Captain looked at him very good-naturedlj^, and the trooper, called Steele, put his hand kindly on the lad's head, and said some words in the Latin tongue.
" What does he say?" says the lawyer.
"Faith, ask Dick himself," cried Captain Westbur}^
"I said I was not ignorant of misfortune mj^self, and had learned to succor the miserable, and that's not your trade, Mr. Sheepskin," said the trooper.
" You had better leave Dick the Scholar alone, Mr. Corbet," the Captain said. And Harry Esmond, always touched by a kind face and kind word, felt very grateful to this good-natured champion.
The horses were by this time harnessed to the coach ; and the Countess and Victoire came down and were put into the vehicle. This woman, who quarrelled with Harry Esmond all da}', was melted at parting with hiin, and called him "dear angel," and " poor infant," and a hundred other names.
The Viscountess, giving him her lean hand to kiss, bade him always be faithful to the house of Esmond. " If evil should happen to m\" lord," says she, "his successor, 1 trust, will be found, and give 3'ou protection. Situated as I am, they will not dare wreak their vengeance on me now.'' And she kissed a medal she wore with great fervor, and Henry Esmond knew not in the least what her meaning was ; but hath since learned that, old as she was, she was for ever expecting, by the good offices of saints and relics, to have an heir to the title of Esmond.
Harry Esmond was too young to have been introduced into the secrets of politics in which his patrons were implicated ; for they put but few questions to the boy (who was little of stat- ure, and looked much 3'ounger than his age), and such ques- tions as the}^ put he answered cautiouslj' enough, and professing even more ignorance than he had, for which his examiners willingly enough gave him credit. He did not say a word about the window or the cupboard over the fireplace ; and these se- crets quite escaped the eyes of the searchers.
So then my lady was consigned to her coach, and sent off to Hexton, with her woman and the man of law to bear her
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 49
compan}^ a couple of troopers riding on either side of the coach. And Harry was left behind at the Hall, belonging as it were to nobody, and quite alone in the world. The captain and a gaard of men remained in possession there ; and the sol- diers, who were very good-natured and kind, ate my lord's mutton and drank his wine, and made themselves comfortable, as they well might do in such pleasant quarters.
The captains had their dinner served in my lord's tapestry parlor, and poor little Harry thought his duty was to wait upon Captain Westbury's chair, as his custom had been to serve his lord when he sat there.
After the departure of the Countess, Dick the Scholar took Harry Esmond under his special protection, and would examine him in his humanities and talk to him both of French and Latin, in which tongues the lad found, and his new friend was willing enough to acknowledge, that he was even more proficient than Scholar Dick. Hearing that he had learned them from a Jesuit, in the praise of whom and whose goodness Harry was never tired of speaking, Dick, rather to the boy's surprise, who began to have an early shrewdness, like man}' children bred up alone, showed a great deal of theological science, and knowledge of the points at issue between the two churches ; so that he and Harry would have hours of controversy together, in which the boy was certainly worsted by the arguments of this singular trooper. " I am no common soldier," Dick would say, and in- deed it was easy to see by his learning, breeding, and many accomphshments, that he was not. " I am of one of the most ancient famiUes in the empire ; I have had my education at a famous school, and a famous universit}' ; I learned m}' first rudi- ments of Latin near to Smithfield, in London, where the mar- tyrs were roasted."
'^ You hanged as many of ours," interposed Harry ; " and, for the matter of persecution, Father Holt told me that a^'oung gentleman of Edinburgh, eighteen years of age, student at the college there, was hanged for heres}' only last j^ear, though he recanted, and solemnl}' asked pardon for his errors."
' ' Faith ! there has been too much persecution on both sides : but 'twas you taught us."
" Nay, 'twas the Pagans began it," cried the lad, and began to instance a number of saints of the Church, from the proto- martyr downwards — " this one's fire went out under him : that one's oil cooled in the caldron : at a third hol}^ head the exe- cutioner chopped three times and it would not come off. Show
4
50 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND.
us martyrs in your church for whom such miracles have been done."
" Na}'," sa^'s the trooper gravely, " the miracles of the first three centuries belong to my Church as well as 3'ours, Master Papist," and then added, with something of a smile upon his countenance, and a queer look at Harry — " And yet, my little catechiser, I have sometimes thought about those miracles, that there was not much good in them, since the victim's head always finished by coming off at the third or fourth chop, and the cal- dron, if it did not boil one day, boiled the next. Howbeit, in our times, the Church has lost that questionable advantage of respites. There never was a shower to put out Ridle3''s fire, nor an angel to turn the edge of Campion's axe. The rack tore the limbs of Southwell the Jesuit and S^'mpson the Protestant alike. For faith, everywhere multitudes die willingly enough. I have read in Monsieur Rycaut's ' Historj^ of the Turks,' of thousands of Mahomet's followers rushing upon death in battle as upon certain Paradise ; and in the great Mogul's dominions people fling themselves by hundreds under the cars of the idols annually, and the widows burn themselves on their husbands' bodies, as 'tis well known. 'Tis not the dying for a faith that's so hard, Master Harry — every man of every nation has done that — 'tis the living up to it that is difficult, as I know to my cost," he added with a sigh. " And ah ! " he added, " my poor lad, I am not strong enough to convince thee b3' my life — though to die for my religion would give me the greatest of joys — but I had a dear friend in Magdalen College in Oxford ; I wish Joe Addison were here to convince thee, as he quickly could — for I think he's a match for the whole College of Jesuits ; and what's more, in his life too. In that very sermon of Dr. Cud worth's which j^our priest was quoting from, and which suffered martydom in the brazier," — Dick added with a smile, " I had a thought of wearing the black coat (but was ashamed of my life, you see, and took to this sorry red one) ; I have often thought of Joe Addison — Dr. Cudworth says, * A good conscience is the best looking-glass of heaven ' — and there's serenity in my friend's face which always reflects it — I wish you could see him, Harry."
"Did he do you a great deal of good?" asked the lad, simply.
" He might have done," said the other — "at least he taught me to see and approve better things. 'Tis my own fault, dete- riora aeqiii.'^
"You seem very good," the boy said.
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 51
*' I'm not what I seem, alas ! " answered the trooper — and indeed, as it turned out, poor Dick told the truth — for that verj^ night, at supper in the hall, where the gentlemen of the troop took their repasts, and passed most part of their daj^s dicing and smoking of tobacco, and singing and cursing, over the Castlewood ale — Harry Esmond found Dick the Scholar in a woful state of drunkenness. He hiccupped out a sermon ; and his laughing companions bade him sing a hymn, on which Dick, swearing he would run the scoundrel through the bod}^ who insulted his religion, made for his sword, which was hang- ing on the wall, and fell down flat on the floor under it, saying to Harr}', who ran forward to help him, "Ah, little Papist, 1 wish Joseph Addison was here ! "
Though the troopers of the King's Life-Guards were all gentlemen, 3'et the rest of the gentlemen seemed ignorant and vulgar boors to Harry Esmond, with the exception of this good- natured Corporal Steele the Scholar, and Captain Westbury and Lieutenant Trant, who were always kind to the lad. They re- mained for some weeks or months encamped in Castlewood, and Harry learned from them, from time to time, how the lady at Hexton Castle was treated, and the particulars of her confine- ment there. 'Tis known that King William was disposed to deal very leniently with the gentr}^ who remained faithful to the old King's cause ; and no prince usurping a crown, as his ene- mies said he did, (righteously taking it, as I think now,) ever caused less blood to be shed. As for women-conspirators, he kept spies on the least dangerous, and locked up the others. Lady Castlewood had the best rooms in Hexton Castle, and the gaoler's garden to walk in ; and though she repeatedly desired to be led out to execution, hke Mary Queen of Scots, there never was an}" thought of taking her painted old head off, or any desire to do aught but keep her person in security.
And it appeared she found that some were friends in her misfortune, whom she had, in her prosperit}^, considered as her worst enemies. Colonel Francis Esmond, my lord's cousin and her ladyship's, who had married the Dean of Winchester's daughter, and, since King James's departure out of England, had lived not very far awa}^ from Hexton town, hearing of his kinswoman's strait, and being friends with Colonel Brice, com- manding for King William in Hexton, and with the Church dignitaries there, came to visit her ladyship in prison, offering to his uncle's daughter any friendly services which lay in his power. And he brought his lady and little daughter to see the prisoner, to the latter of whom, a child of great beauty and
52 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND.
man}^ winning ways, the old Viscountess took not a little liking, although between her ladyship and the child's mother there was little more love than formerly. There are some injuries which women never forgive one another ; and Madam Francis Esmond, in marrying her cousin, had done one of those irretrievable wrongs to Lady Castlewood. But as she was now humiliated, and in misfortune, Madam Francis could allow a truce to her enmity, and could be kind for a while, at least, to her hus- band's discarded mistress. So the little Beatrix, her daughter, was permitted often to go and visit the imprisoned Viscountess, who, in so far as the child and its father were concerned, got to abate in her anger towards that branch of the Castlewood family. And the letters of Colonel Esmond coming to light, as has been said, and his conduct being known to the King's council, the Colonel was put in a better position with the ex- isting government than he had ever before been ; any suspi- cions regarding his lo3'alty were entirely done away ; and so he was enabled to be of more service to his kinswoman than he could otherwise have been.
And now there befell an event by which this lad}- recovered her liberty, and the house of Castlewood got a new owner, and fatherless little Harry Esmond a new and most kind protector and friend. Whatever that secret was which Harr}^ was to hear from my lord, the bo}^ never heard it ; for that night when Father Holt arrived, and carried my lord away with him, was the last on which Harr}^ ever saw his patron. What happened to my lord ma}' be briefly told here. Having found the horses at the place where the}^ were l3'ing, my lord and Father Holt rode together to Chatteris, where they had temporary refuge with one of the Father's penitents in that city ; but the pursuit being hot for them, and the reward for the apprehension of one or the other considerable, it was deemed advisable that they should separate ; and the priest betook himself to other places of retreat known to him, whilst my lord passed over from Bris- tol into Ireland, in which kingdom King James had a court and an arm}'. My lord was but a small addition to this ; bring- ing, indeed, onl}- his sword and the few pieces in his pocket ; but the King received him with some kindness and distinction in spite of his poor plight, confirmed him in his new title of Marquis, gave him a regiment, and promised him farther pro- motion. But titles or promotion were not to benefit him now. My lord was wonnded at the fatal battle of the Boyne, flying from which field (long after his master had set him an exam- ple) he lay for a while concealed in the marshy country near to
THE HISTOKY OF HENRY ESMOND. 53
the town of Trim, and more from catarrh and fever caught in the bogs than from the steel of the enemy in the battle, sank and died. May the earth lie light upon Thomas of Castlewood ! He who writes this must speak in charity, though this lord did him and his two grievous wrongs : for one of these he would have made amends, perhaps, had life been spared him ; but the other lay beyond his power to repair, though 'tis to be hoped that a greater Power than a priest has absolved him of it. He got the comfort of this absolution, too, such as it was : a priest of Trim writing a letter to my lady to inform her of this calamit3^
But in those days letters were slow of travelling, and our priest's took two months or more on its journey from Ireland to England : where, wlien it did arrive, it did not find my lad}' at her own house ; she was at the King's house of Hexton Castle when the letter came to Castlewood, but it was opened for all that by the officer in command there.
Harr}^ Esmond well remembered the receipt of this letter, which Lockwood brought in as Captain Westbury and Lieuten- ant Trant were on the green playing at bowls, young Esmond looking on at the sport, or reading his book in the arbor.
" Here's news for Frank Esmond," says Captain Westbur}' ; "Harr}', did you ever see Colonel Esmond?" And Captain Westbury looked verj^ hard at the boy as he spoke.
Harr}^ said he had seen him but once when he was at Hex- ton, at the ball there.
" And did he say anything?"
" He said what I don't care to repeat," Harry answered. For he was now twelve years of age : he knew what his birth was, and the disgrace of it ; and he felt no love towards the man who had most likely stained his mother's honor and his own.
" Did you love m}^ Lord Castlewood? "
" I wait until I know my mother, sir, to say," the boy an- swered, his eyes filling with tears.
" Something has happened to Lord Castlewood," Captain Westbury said in a ver}' grave tone — " something which must happen to us all. He is dead of a wound received at the Boj^ne, fighting for King James."
"I am glad my lord fought for the right cause," the boy said.
" It was better to meet death on the field like a man, than face it on Tower-hill, as some of them ma}'," continued Mr. Westbury. " I hope he has made some testament, or provided
54 THE HISTORY OF HENKY ESMOND.
for thee somehow. This letter says he recommends unicum filmm suum dilectlssimum to his lady. I hope he has left you more than that."
Harry did not know, he said. He was in the hands of Heaven and Fate ; but more lonely now, as it seemed to him, than he had been all the rest of his life ; and that night, as he lay in his little room which he still occupied, the boy thought with many a pang of shame and grief of his strange and solitary condition : — how he had a father and no father ; a nameless mother that had been brought to ruin, perhaps, b}' that very father whom Harry could only acknowledge in secret and with a blush, and whom he could neither love nor revere. And he sickened to think how Father Holt, a stranger, and two or three soldiers, his acquaintances of the last six weeks, were the only friends he had in the great wide world, where he was now quite alone. The soul of the boy was full of love, and he longed as he lay in the darkness there for some one upon whom he could bestow it. He remembers, and must to his dying da}', the thoughts and tears of that long night, the hours tolling through it. Who was he, and what ? Wh}^ here rather than else- where ? I have a mind, he thought, to go to that priest at Trim, and find out what my father said to him on his death-bed con- fession. Is there any child in the whole w^orld so unprotected as I am? Shall I get up and quit this place, and run to Ireland? With these thoughts and tears the lad passed that night away until he wept himself to sleep.
The next da}^, the gentlemen of the guard, who had heard •what had befallen him, were more than usually kind to the child, especially his friend Scholar Dick, who told him about his own father's death, which had happened when Dick was a child at Dublin, not quite five years of age. "That was the first sensation of grief," Dick said, " I ever knew. I remember I went into the room where his body lay, and my mother sat weeping beside it. I had mj battledore in my hand, and fell a-beating the coffin, and calling Papa ; on which my mother caught me in her arms, and told me in a flood of tears Papa could not hear me, and would plaj^ with me no more, for they were going to put him under ground, whence he could never come to us again. And this," said Dick kindly, "has made me pity all children ever since ; and caused me to love thee, my poor fatherless, motherless lad. And, if ever thou wantest a friend, thou shalt have one in Richard Steele."
Harry Esmond thanked him, and was grateful. But what could Corporal Steele do for him? take him to ride a spare
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 55
horse, and be servant to the troop? Though there might be a bar in Harry Esmond's shield, it was a noble one. The coun- sel of the two friends was, that little Harr}^ should stay where he was, and abide his fortune : so Esmond stayed on at Castle- wood, awaiting with no small anxiet}' the fate, whatever it was, which was over him.
CHAPTER VII.
I AM LEFT AT CASTLE WOOD AN ORPHAN, AND FIND MOST KIND PROTECTORS THERE.
During the sta}^ of the soldiers in Castlewood, honest Dick the Scholar was the constant companion of the loneh^ little orphan lad Harry Esmond : and they read together, and they played bowls together, and when the other troopers or their officers, who were free-spoken over their cups, (as was the way of that da}^ when neither men nor women were over-nice,) t,alked unbecominglj^ of their amours and gallantries before the <3hild, Dick, who veiy likel}" was setting the whole company laughing, would stop their jokes with a maxima debetur pueris revererdia^ and once offered to lug out against another trooper called Hulking Tom, who wanted to ask Harry Esmond a ribald question.
Also, Dick seeing that the child had, as he said, a sensi- bilit}^ above his 3'ears, and a great and praiseworthy discretion, confided to Harry his love for a vintner's daughter, near to the Tollyard, Westminster, whom Dick addressed as Saccharissa in many verses of his composition, and without whom he said it would be impossible that he could continue to live. He vowed this a thousand times in a day, though Harr}^ smiled to see the love-lorn swain had his health and appetite as well as the most heart-whole trooper in the regiment : and he swore Harry to secrecy too, which vow the lad religiousl}' kept, until he found that officers and privates were all taken into Dick's confidence, and had the benefit of his verses. And it must be owned like- wise that, while Dick was sighing after Saccharissa in London, he had consolations in the country ; for there came a wench out of Castlewood village who had washed his linen, and who cried sadly when she heard he was gone : and without paying her bill too, which Hany Esmond took upon himself to dis- charge by giving the girl a silver pocket-piece, which Scholar
56 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND.
Dick had presented to him, when, with many embraces and prayers for his prosperit}', Dick parted from him, the garrison of Castlewood being ordered away. Dick the Scholar said he would never forget his young friend, nor indeed did he : and Harry was sorry when the kind soldiers vacated Castlewood, looking forward with no small anxiet}' (for care and solitude had made him thoughtful beyond his years) to his fate when the new lord and lady of the house came to live there. He had lived to be past twelve years old now ; and had never had a friend, save this wild trooper, perhaps, and Father Holt ; and had a fond and affectionate heart, tender to weakness, that would fain attach itself to somebod}^ and did not seem at rest until it had found a friend who would take charge of it.
The instinct which led Henry Esmond to admire and love the gracious person, the fair apparition of whose beauty and kindness had so moved him when he first beheld her, became soon a devoted affection and passion of gratitude, which entirely filled his young heart, that as 3'et, except in the case of dear Father Holt, had had very little kindness for which to be thank- ful. 0 Dea certe^ thought he, remembering the lines out of the ^neas which Mr. Holt had taught him. There seemed, as the boy thought, in every look or gesture of this fair creature, an angelical softness and bright pity — in motion or repose she seemed gracious alike ; the tone of her voice, though she uttered words ever so trivial, gave him a pleasure that amounted almost to anguish. It cannot be called love, that a lad of twelve years of age, little more than a menial, felt for an exalted lady, his mistress : but it was worship. To catch her glance, to divine her errand and run on it before she had spoken it ; to watch, follow, adore lier ; became the business of his life. Meanwhile, as is the way often, his idol had idols of her own, and never thought of or suspected the admiration of her httle pigmy adorer.
My lad}^ had on her side her three idols : first and foremost, Jove and supreme ruler, was her lord, Harry's patron, the good Viscount of Castlewood. All wishes of his were laws with her. If he had a headache, she was ill. If he frowned, she trembled. If he joked, she smiled and was charmed. If he went a-hunt- ing, she was always at the window to see him ride awaj*, her little son crowing on her arm, or on the watch till his return. She made dishes for his dinner : spiced wine for him : made the toast for his tankard at breakfast : hushed the house when he slept in his chair, and watched for a look when he woke. If m3' lord was not a little proud of his beauty, mj' lad}' adored
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 57
it. She clung to his arm as he paced the terrace, her two fair little hands clasped round his great one ; her eyes were never tired of looking in his face and wondering at its perfection. Her little son was his son, and had his father's look and curly > brown hair. Her daughter Beatrix was his daughter, and had his e3-es — were there ever such beautiful eyes in the world ? All the house was arranged so as to bring him ease and give him pleasure. She hked the small gentry round about to come and pay him court, never caring for admiration for herself; those who wanted to be well with the lady must admire him. Not regarding her dress, she would wear a gown to rags, be- cause he had once liked it : and, if he brought her a brooch or a ribbon, would prefer it to all the most costly articles of her wardrobe.
My lord went to London every year for six weeks, and the family being too poor to appear at Court with any figure, he went alone. It was not until he was out of sight that her face showed an}^ sorrow : and what a joy when he came back ! What preparation before his return ! The fond creature had his arm-chair at the chimney-side — dehghting to put the chil- dren in it, and look at them there. Nobody took his place at the table ; but his silver tankard stood there as when my lord was present.
A prett}^ sight it was to see, during my lord's absence, or on those many mornings when sleep or headache kept him a-bed, this fair young lad}^ of Castlewood, her little daughter at her knee, and her domestics gathered round her, reading the Morn? ing Prayer of the English Church. Esmond long remembered how she looked and spoke, kneeling reverently before the sacred book, the sun shining upon her golden hair until it made a halo round about her. A dozen of the servants of the house kneeled in a line opposite their mistress ; for a while Harr}^ Esmond kept apart from these mysteries, but Doctor Tusher showing him that the pra3'ers read were those of the Church of all ages, and the boy's own inclination prompting him to be always as near as he might to his mistress, and to think all things she did right, from listening to the pra3'ers in the ante-chamber, he came presentl}^ to kneel down with the rest of the household in the parlor ; and before a couple of 3"ears m3^ lady had made a thorough convert. Indeed, the bo3' loved his catechiser so much that he would have subscribed to an3^thing she bade him, and was never tired of listening to her fond discourse and simple comments upon the book, which she read to him in a voice of which it was difficult to resist the sweet persuasion and tender
58 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND.
appealing kindness. This friendly controversy, and the inti- macy which it occasioned, bound the lad more fondl}' than ever to his mistress. The happiest period of all his life was this ; and the 3"oung mother, with her daughter and son, and the orphan lad whom she protected, read and worked and pla3^ed, and were children together. If the lad}' looked forward — as what fond woman does not? — towards tlie future, she had no plans from which Harry Esmond was left out ; and a thousand and a thousand times, in his passionate and impetuous way, he vowed that no power should separate him from his mistress ; and onh' asked for some chance to happen b}^ which he might show his fidelit}' to her. Now, at the close of his life, as he sits and recalls in tranquillity the happ}^ and busy scenes of it, he can think, not ungratefully, that he has been faithful to that early vow. Such a life is so simple that 3'ears may be chron- icled in a few lines. But few men's life-vo3'ages are destined to be all prosperous ; and this calm of which we are speaking was soon to come to an end.
As P^smond grew, and observed for himself, he found of necessity much to read and think of outside that fond circle of kinsfolk who had admitted him to join hand with them. He read more books than tlie}^ cared to stud}^ with him ; was alone in the midst of them many a time, and passed nights over labors, futile perhaps, but in which the}' could not join him. His dear mistress divined his thoughts with her usual jealous watchfulness of affection : began to forebode a time when he would escape from his home-nest ; and, at his eager protesta- tions to the contrar3^, would only sigh and shake her head. Before those fatal decrees in life are executed, there are alwa3's secret previsions and warning omens. When everything 3'et seems calm, we are aware that the storm is coming. Ere the happy days were over, two at least of that home-part}' felt that they were drawing to a close ; and were uneasy, and on the look-out for the cloud which was to obscure their calm.
'Twas easy for Harry to see, however much his lady per- sisted in obedience and admiration for her husband, that my lord tired of his quiet life, and grew weary, and then testy, at those gentle bonds with which his wife would have held him. As they say the Grand Lama of Thibet is ver}' much fatigued by his char- acter of divinity, and yawns on his altar as his bonzes kneel and worship him, man}- a home-god grows heartil3' sick of the rev- erence with which his family-devotees pursue him, and sighs for freedom and for his old life, and to be off the pedestal on which his dependants would have him sit for ever, whilst they adore
THE HISTOKY OF HENRY ESMOND. 59
him, and pi}' him with flowers, and h3'mns, and incense, and flattery ; — so, after a few years of his marriage my lionest Lord Castlewood began to tire ; all the high-flown raptures and devo- tional ceremonies with which his wife, his chief priestess, treat- ed him, first sent him to sleep, and then drove him out of doors ; for the truth must be told, that mj' lord was a jolh' gentleman, with very little of the august or divine in his nature, though his fond wife persisted in revering it — and, besides, he had to pay a penalty for this love, which persons of his disposition seldom like to defray : and, in a word, if he had a loving wife, had a very jealous and exacting one. Then he wearied of this jeal- ousy ; then he broke away from it ; then came, no doubt, complaints and recriminations ; then, perhaps, promises of amendment not fulfilled ; then upbraidings not the more pleas- ant because they were silent, and only sad looks and tearful eyes conveyed them. Then, perhaps, the pair reached that other stage which is not uncommon in married life, when the woman perceives that the god of the honeymoon is a god no more ; onl}' a mortal like the rest of us — and so she looks into her heart, and lo ! vocucb sedes et inania arcana. And now, sup- posing our lad}' to have a fine genius and a brilliant wit of her own, and the magic spell and infatuation removed from her which had led her to worship as a god a very ordinary mortal — and what follows ? They live together, and they dine together, and they say ' ' my dear " and ' ' m}' love " as heretofore ; but the man is himself, and the woman herself: that dream of love is over as everything else is over in life ; as flowers and fury, and griefs and pleasures, are over.
Very likely the Lady Castlewood had ceased to adore her husband herself long before she got oflf her knees, or would allow her household to discontinue worshipping him. To do him justice, mj' lord never exacted this subservience : he laughed and joked and drank his bottle, and swore when he was angry, much too familiarl}' for any one pretending to sublimit}^ ; and did his best to destroy the ceremonial with which his wdfe chose to surround him. And it required no great conceit on voung Es- mond's part to see that his own brains were better than his pa- tron's, who, indeed, never assumed an}' airs of superiority over the lad, or over any dependant of his, save when he was dis- pleased, in which case he would express his mind in oaths very freely; and who, on the contrary, perhaps, spoiled "Parson Harry," as he called young Esmond, by constantly praising his parts and admiring his boyish stock of learning.
It may seem ungracious in one who has received a hundred
60 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND.
favors from his patron to speak in any but a reverential manner of his elders ; but the present writer has had descendants of his own, whom he has brought up witli as little as possible of the servility" at present exacted b}^ parents from children (under which mask of dut}' there often lurks indifference, contempt, or rebellion) : and as he would have his grandsons believe or rep- resent him to be not an inch taller than Nature has made him : so, with regard to his past acquaintances, he would speak with- out anger, but with truth, as far as he knows it, neither extenu- ating nor setting down aught in malice.
80 long, then, as the world moved according to Lord Castle- wood's wishes, he was good-humored enough ; of a temper naturall}' sprightly and eas}', liking to joke, especially with his inferiors, and charmed to receive the tribute of their laughter. All exercises of the bod}^ he could perform to perfection — shooting at a mark and flying, breaking horses, riding at the ring, pitching the quoit, playing at all games with great skill. And not only did he do these things well, but he thought he did them to perfection ; hence he was often tricked about horses, which he pretended to know better than any jocke}- ; was made to play at ball and billiards b}^ sharpers who took his money, and came back from London wofully poorer each time than he went, as the state of his affairs testified when the sudden acci- dent came b}^ which his career was brought to an end.
Pie was fond of the parade of dress, and passed as many hours daily at his toilette as an elderly coquette. A tenth part of his da}^ was spent in the brushing of his teeth and the oiling of his hair, which was curling and brown, and which he did not like to conceal under a periwig, such as almost everybody of that time wore. (We have the liberty of our hair back now, but powder and pomatum along with it. When, I wonder, will these monstrous poll-taxes of our age be withdrawn, and men allowed to cany their colors, black, red, or gray, as Nature made them?) And as he liked her to be well dressed, his lad}' spared no pains in that matter to please him ; indeed, she would dress her head or cut it off if he had bidden her.
It was a wonder to young Esmond, serving as page to m}' lord and ladj', to hear, day after da}', to such company as came, the same boisterous stories told by my lord, at which his lad}- never failed to smile or hold down her head, and Doctor Tusher to burst out laughing at the proper point, or cr}', "Fie, m}^ lord, remember m}' cloth ! " but with such a faint show of resist- ance, that it onl}^ provoked m}^ lord further. Lord Castlewood's stories rose by degrees, and became stronger after the ale at
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 61
dinner and the bottle afterwards ; my lad}' always taking flight after the very first glass to Church and King, and leaving the gentlemen to drink the rest of the toasts b}^ themselves.
And, as Harry Esmond was her page, he also was called from duty at this time. "My lord has lived in the arm}' and with soldiers," she would say to the lad, "amongst whom great license is allowed. You have had a different nurture, and I trust these things will change as you grow older ; not that an}' fault attaches to my lord, who is one of the best and most religious men in this kingdom." And very likely she believed so. 'Tis strange what a man may do, and a woman yet think him an angel.
And as Esmond has taken truth for his motto, it must be owned, even with regard to that other angel, his mistress, that she had a fault of character wliich flawed her perfections. With the other sex perfectly tolerant and kindly, of her own she was invariably jealous ; and a proof that she had this vice is, that though she would acknowledge a thousand faults that she had not, to this which she had she could never be got to own. But if there came a woman with even a semblance of beauty to Castlewood, she was so sure to find out some wrong in her, that my lord, laughing in his jolly way, would often joke with her concerning her foible. Comely servant-maids might come for hire, but none were taken at Castlewood. The housekeeper was old ; my lady's own waiting-woman squinted, and was marked with the small-pox ; the housemaids and scul- lion were ordinary country wenches, to whom Lady Castlewood was kind, as her nature made her to everybody almost; but as soon as ever she had to do with a pretty woman, she was cold, retiring, and haughty. The country ladies found this fault in her ; and though the men all admired her, their wives and daughters complained of her coldness and airs, and said that Castlewood was pleasanter in Lady Jezebel's time (as the dowager was called) than at present. Some few were of my mistress's side. Old Lady Blenkinsop Jointure, who had been at court in King James the First's time, always took her side ; and so did old Mistress Crookshank, Bishop Crookshank's daughter, of Hexton, who, with some more of their like, pro- nounced my lady an angel : but the pretty women were not of this mind ; and the opinion of the country was that my lord was tied to his wife's apron-strings, and that she ruled over him.
The second fight which Harry Esmond had, was at fourteen years of age, with Bryan Hawkshaw, Sir John Hawkshaw's
62 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND.
son, of Bramblebrook, who, advancing this opinion, that my lad}^ was jealous and henpecked my lord, put Harry in such a fury, that Harrj^ fell on him and with such rage, that the other boy, who was two j^ears older and by far bigger than he, had by far the worst of the assault, until it was interrupted by Doctor Tiisher walking out of the dinner-room.
Br3'an Hawkshaw got up bleeding at the nose, having, in- deed, been surprised, as many a stronger man might have been, by the fur}^ of the assault upon him.
" You little bastard beggar ! " he said, " I'll murder you for this ! "
And indeed he was big enough.
"Bastard or not," said the other, grinding his teeth, "I have a couple of swords, and if you like to meet me, as a man, on the terrace to-night — "
And here the Doctor coming up, the colloquy of the young champions ended. Very likely, big as he was, Hawkshaw did not care to continue a fight with such a ferocious opponent as this had been.
CHAPTER Vm.
AFTER GOOD FORTUNE COMES ETIL.
Since my Lady Mary Wortley Montagu brought home the custom of inoculation from Turke}' (a perilous practice many deem it, and only a useless rushing into the jaws of danger) , I think the severity of the small-pox, that dreadful scourge of the world, has somewhat been abated in our part of it ; and re- member in my time hundreds of the young and beautiful who have been carried to the grave, or have only risen from their pillows frightfully scarred and disfigured by this malady. Many a sweet face hath left its roses on the bed on which this dread- ful and withering blight has laid them. In m}' early daj-s, this pestilence would enter a village and destroy half its inhabitants : at its approach, it may well be imagined, not onlj- the beautiful but the strongest were alarmed, and those fled who could. One day in the year 1694 (I have good reason to remember it), Doctor Tusher ran into Castle wood House, with a face of con- sternation, saying that the malad\^ had made its appearance at the blacksmith's house in the village, and that one of the maids there was down in the small-pox.
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 63
The blacksmith, besides his forge and irons for horses, had an ale-house for men, which his wife kept, and his company sat on benches before the inn-door, looking at the smithy while they drank their beer. Now, there was a pretty girl at this irin, the landlord's men called Nancy Sievewright, a bouncing, fresh-looking lass, whose face was as red as the hollyhocks over the pales of the garden behind the inn. At this time Harr}" Esmond was a lad of sixteen, and somehow in his walks and rambles it often happened that he fell in with Nancy Sieve- wright's bonny face ; if he did not want something done at the blacksmith's he would go and drink ale at the '' Three Castles," or find some pretext for seeing this poor Nancy. Poor thing, Harry meant or imagined no harm ; and she, no doubt, as little, but the truth is they were always meeting — in the lanes, or by the brook, or at the garden-pahngs, or about Castlewood : it was, " Lord, Mr. Henry ! " and " How do you do, Nancy?" many and many a time in the week. 'Tis surprising the mag- netic attraction which draws people together from ever so far. I blush as I think of poor Nanc}" now, in a red bodice and buxom purple cheeks and a canvas petticoat ; and that I de- vised schemes, and set traps, and made speeches in my heart, which I seldom had courage to say when in presence of that humble enchantress, who knew nothing be3'ond milking a cow, and opened her black eyes with wonder when I made one of my fine speeches out of Waller or Ovid. Poor Nancy ! from the midst of far-off years thine honest country face beams out ; and I remember thy kind voice as if I had heard it 3'es- terday.
When Doctor Tusher brought the news that the small-pox was at the " Three Castles," whither a tramper, it was said, had brought the malad}', Henry Esmond's first thought was of alarm for poor Nanc}', and then of shame and disquiet for the Castlewood famil}', lest he might have brought this infection ; for the truth is that Mr. Harry had been sitting in a back room for an hour that day, where Nancy Sievewright w^as with a little brother who complained of headache, and was lying stupe- fied and cr3ing, either in a chair by the corner of the fire, or in Nancy's lap, or on mine.
Little Lady Beatrix screamed out at Dr. Tusher's news ; and my lord cried out, "God bless me!" He was a brave man, and not afraid of death in any shape but this. He was very proud of his pink complexion and fair hair — but the idea of death by small-pox scared him beyond all other ends. " We will take the children and ride away to-morrow to Walcote : "
64 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND.
this was mj lord's small house, inherited from his mother, near to Winchester.
" That is the best refuge in case the disease spreads," said Dr. Tusher. " 'Tis awful to think of it beginning at the ale- house ; half the people of the village have visited that to-day, or the blacksmith's, which is the same thing. M}^ clerk Nahum lodges with them — I can never go into my reading-desk and have that fellow so near me. I worCt have that man near me."
" If a parishioner dying in the small-pox sent to you, would you not go?" asked my lad}', looking up from her frame of work, with her calm blue eyes.
" By the Lord, /wouldn't," said my lord.
' ' We are not in a popish countrj^ ; and a sick man doth not absolutel}' need absolution and confession," said the Doctor. '''Tis true the\- are a comfort and a help to him when attain- able, and to be administered with hope of good. But in a case where the life of a parish priest in the midst of his flock is higWy valuable to them, he is not called upon to risk it (and therewith the lives, future prospects, and temporal, even spiritual welfare of his own family) for the sake of a single person, who is not very likelj' in a condition even to understand the religious message whereof the priest is the bringer — being uneducated, and likewise stupefied or delirious b}- disease. If your ladj'ship or his lordship, m}^ excellent good friend and patron, were to take it ... "
" God forbid ! " cried my lord.
"Amen," continued Dr. Tusher. "Amen to that pra3'er, my very good lord ! for your sake I would lay m}^ life down " — and, to judge from the alarmed look of the Doctor's purple face, you would have thought that that sacrifice was about to be called for instantly.
To love children, and be gentle with them, was an instinct, rather than a merit, in Henry Esmond ; so much so, that he thought almost with a sort of shame of his liking for them, and of the softness into which it betrayed him ; and on this da}^ the poor fellow had not onl}^ had his young friend, the milkmaid's brother, on his knee, but had been drawing pictures and telling stories to the little Frank Castlewood, who had occupied the same place for an hour after dinner, and was never tired of Henry's tales, and his pictures of soldiers and horses. As luck would have it, Beatrix had not on that evening taken her usual place, which generally she was glad enough to have, upon her tutor's lap. For Beatrix, from the earliest time, was jealous of every caress which was given to her little brother Frank. She
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 65
would fling away even from the maternal arms, if she saw Frank had been there before her ; insomuch that Lad}^ Esmond was obliged not to show her love for her son in the presence of the little girl, and embraced one or the other alone. She would turn pale and red with rage if she caught signs of intelligence or affection between Frank and his mother ; would sit apart, and not speak for a whole night, if she thought the boy had a better fruit or a larger cake than hers ; would fling away a ribbon if he had one ; and from the earliest age, sitting up in her little chair bj' the great fireplace opposite to the corner where Lady Castle wood commonl}- sat at her embroidery, would utter in- fantine sarcasms about the favor shown to her brother. These, if spoken in the presence of Lord Castlewood, tickled and amused his humor ; he would pretend to love Frank best, and dandle and kiss him, and roar with laughter at Beatrix's jeal- ousy. But the truth is, m}' lord did not often witness these scenes, nor ver}^ much trouble the quiet fireside at which his lad^' passed man}^ long evenings. My lord was hunting all day when the season admitted ; he frequented all the cock-fights and fairs in the country, and would ride twenty miles to see a main fought, or two clowns break their heads at a cudgelhng-match ; and he liked better to sit in his parlor drinking ale and punch with Jack and Tom, than in his wife's drawing-room : whither, if he came, he brought only too often bloodshot eyes, a hic- cup[)ing voice, and a reeling gait. The management of the house, and the propert}', the care of the few tenants and the village poor, and the accounts of the estate, were in the hands of his lady and her .young secretar}^ Harry Esmond. My lord took charge of the stables, the kennel, and the cellar — and he filled this and emptied it too.
So it chanced that upon this very day, when poor Harry Esmond had had the blacksmith's son, and the peer's son, alike upon his knee, little Beatrix, who would come to her tutor willing]}" enough with her book and her writing, had refused him, seeing the place occupied b}' her brother, and, luckil}' for her, had sat at the further end of the room, awa}' from him, pla3ing with a spaniel dog which she had, (and for which, b}' fits and starts, she would take a great affection,) and talking at Harry Esmond over her shoulder, as she pretended to caress the dog, sa3ing that Fido would love her, and she would love Fido, and nothing but Fido all her life.
When, then, the news was brought that the little bo}^ at the ' ' Three Castles " was ill with the small-pox, poor Harry Es- mond felt a shock of alarm, not so much for himself as for his
66 THE HISTORY OF HEXRY ESMOND.
mistress's son, whom he might have brought into peril. Beatrix, who had pouted sufficiently^ (and who, whenever a stranger ap- peared, began, from infanc}' almost, to play off little graces to catch his attention,) her brother being now gone to bed, was for taking her place upon Esmond's knee : for, though the Doctor was very obsequious to her, she did not like him, because he had thick boots and dirty hands (the pert young miss said), and because she hated learning the catechism.
But as she advanced towards Esmond from the corner where she had been sulking, he started back and placed the great chair on which he was sitting between him and her — saying in the French language to Lady Castlewood, with whom the young lad had read much, and whom he had perfected in this tongue — *• Madam, the child must not approach me ; I must tell 3'ou that I was at the blacksmith's to-da}^, and had his little boy upon my lap."
"Where 3'ou took my son afterwards," Lady Castlewood said, very angry, and turning red. "I thank 3^ou, sir, for giving him such company. Beatrix," she said in English, " I forbid you to touch Mr. Esmond. Come awa}^, child — come to your room. Come to your room — I wish j'our Reverence good-night — and you, sir, had you not better go back to your friends at the ale-house?" Her e3^es, ordinarilj^ so kind, darted flashes of anger as she spoke ; and she tossed up her head (which hung down commonly) with the mien of a princess.
" He^'-da}^ " says mj- lord, who was standing by the fire- place — indeed he was in the position to which he generally came b}' that hour of the evening — " He^^-da}' ! Rachel, what are 3'ou in a passion about? Ladies ought never to be in a pas- sion. Ought thev. Doctor Tusher? though it does good to see Rachel in a passion — Damme, Lady Castlewood, 3^ou look dev'lish handsome in a passion."
" It is, m3' lord, because Mr. Henr3^ Esmond, having noth- ing to do with his time here, and not having a taste for our company, has been to the ale-house, where he has some friends.^'
M3' lord burst out, with a laugh and an oath — " You young
sl3"boots, you've been at Nanc3^ Sievewright. D the 3^oung
h3pocrite, who'd have thought it in him? I sa3^, Tusher, he's been after — "
" Enough, my lord," said my lady, " don't insult me with this talk."
" Upon my word," said poor Harry, read3^ to cr3^ with shame and mortification, " the honor of that young person is perfectly unstained for me."
THE HISTORY OF HEXRY ESMOND. 67
" Oh, of course, of course," says my lord, more and more laughing and tipsy. " Upon his honor ^ Doctor — Nancy Sieve — . . ."
'' Take Mistress Beatrix to bed," my lady cried at this mo- ment to Mrs. Tucker her woman, who came in with her lady- ship's tea. "Put her into my room — no, into yours," she added quickly. " Go, my child : go, I sa}^ : not a word ! " And Beatrix, quite surprised at so sudden a tone of authority from one wlio was seldom accustomed to raise her voice, went out of the room with a scared countenance, and waited even to burst out a-crying until she got to the door with Mrs. Tucker.
For once her mother took little heed of her sobbing, and continued to speak eagerh' — " My lord," she said, " this young man — your dependant — told me just now in French — he was ashamed to speak in his own language — that he had been at the ale-house all day, where he has had that little wretch who is now ill of the small-pox on his knee. And he comes home reeking from that place — yes, reeking from it — and takes my boy into his lap without shame, and sits down by me, yes, by me. He may have killed Frank for what I know — killed our child. Why was he brought in to disgrace our house ? Why is he here ? Let him go — let him go, I saj^, to-night, and pollute the place no more."
She had never once uttered a syllable of unkindness to Harry Esmond ; and her cruel words smote the poor bo}", so that he stood for some moments bewildered with grief and rage at the injustice of such a stab from such a hand. He turned quite white from red, which he had been.
" I cannot help my birth, madam," he said, " nor my other misfortune. And as for 3^our boy, if — if my coming nigh to him pollutes him now, it was not so always. Good-night, my lord. Heaven bless you and yours for your goodness to me. I have tired her ladyship's kindness out, and I will go ; " and, sinking down on his knee, Harrj^ Esmond took the rough hand of his benefactor and kissed it.
" He wants to go to the ale-house — let him go," cried my lady.
" I'm d — d if he shall," said my lord. " I didn't think you could be so d — d ungrateful, Rachel."
Her reply was to burst into a flood of tears, and to (juit the room with a rapid glance at Harry Esmond, — as my lord, not heeding them, and still in great good-humor, raised up his young client from his kneeling posture (for a thousand kind-
68 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND.
nesses had caused the lad to revere my lord as a father), and put his broad hand on Harry Esmond's shoulder.
" She was alwa3's so," m^^ lord said ; " the very notion of a woman drives her mad. I took to liquor on that very account, by Jove, for no other reason than that ; for she can't be jealous
of a beer-barrel or a bottle of rum, can she, Doctor? D it,
look at the maids — just look at the maids in the house " (my lord pronounced all the words together — just-look-at-the-maze- in-the-house : jever-see-such-maze?) "You wouldn't take a wife out of Castlewood now, would you, Doctor?" and my lord burst out laughing.
The Doctor, who had been looking at m}" Lord Castlewood from under his eyelids, said, "But joking apart, and, my lord, as a divnie, I cannot treat the subject in a jocular light, nor, as a pastor of this congregation, look with anything but sorrow at the idea of so very young a sheep going astray."
" Sir," said young Esmond, bursting out indignantly, " she told me that you yourself were a horrid old man, and had offijred to kiss her in the dairy."
"For shame, Henry," cried Doctor Tusher, turning as red as a turke3'-cock, while my lord continued to roar with laughter. ' ' If you listen to the falsehoods of an abandoned girl — "
" She is as honest as any woman in England, and as pure for me," cried out Henry, " and as kind, and as good. For shame on 3^ou to malign her ! "
" Far be it from me to do so," cried the Doctor. " Heaven grant I may be mistaken in the girl, and in you, sir, who have a truly precocious genius ; but that is not the point at issue at present. It appears that the small-pox broke out in the little boy at the ' Three Castles ; ' that it was on him when you visited the ale-house, for your own reasons ; and that 3^ou sat with the child for some time, and immediately afterwards with ray young lord." The Doctor raised his voice as he spoke, and looked towards my lady, who had now come back, looking very pale, with a handkerchief in her hand.
" This is all very true, sir," said Lady Esmond, looking at the young man.
" 'Tis to be feared that he may 'lave brought the infection with him."
" From the ale-house — 3^es," said m3' lady.
"D " it, I forgot when I collared 3'ou, bo3'," cried my
lord, stepping back. "Keep off, Harry my boy; there's no good in running into the wolf's jaws, you know."
My lady looked at him with some surprise, and instantly
THE HISTORY OF HEXRY ESMOND. 69
advancing to Henry Esmond, took his hand. " I beg 3'our pardon, Henr}^" she said; "1 spoke very unkindly. I have no right to interfere with 3"0u — with 3^our — "
My lord broke out into an oath. " Can't you leave the boy alone, my lady?" She looked a little red, and faintly pressed the lad's hand as she dropped it.
" There is no use, my lord," she said ; " Frank was on his knee as he was making pictures, and was running constantly from Henry to me. The evil is done, if any."
" Not with me, damme," cried my lord. "Tve been smok- ing,"— and he lighted his pipe again with a coal — ''and it keeps off infection ; and as the disease is in the village — plague take it — I would have you leave it. We'll go to-morrow to Walcote, my lady."
" I have no fear," said my lady ; " I may have had it as an infant : it broke out in our house then ; and when four of my sisters had it at home, two years before our marriage, I escaped it, and two of my dear sisters died."
" 1 won't run the risk," said my lord ; " I'm as bold as any man, but I'll not bear that."
"Take Beatrix with you and go," said my lady. " For us the mischief is done ; and Tucker can wait upon us, who has had the disease."
" You take care to choose 'em ugly enough," said my lord, at which her ladyship hung down her head and looked foolish : and m}' lord, calhng awa}^ Tusher, bade him come to the oak parlor and have a pipe. The Doctor made a low bow to her lad3'ship (of which salaams he was profuse), and walked off on his creaking square-toes after his patron.
When the lad}' and the 3'oung man were alone, there was a silence of some moments, during which he stood at the fire, looking rather vacantly at the d^ing embers, whilst her ladyship busied herself wdth the tambour-frame and needles.
" I am sorry," she said, after a pause, in a hard, dry voice, -T- " I repeat I am sorrj^ that I showed m3'self so ungrateful for the safety of m}^ son. It was not at all my wish that 3'ou should leave us, I am sure, unless you found pleasure else- where. But 3'ou must perceive, Mr. Esmond, that at 3'our age, and with your tastes, it is impossible that you can continue to sta3^ upon the intimate footing in which 3'ou have been in this famil3\ You have wished to go to the Universit3', and I think 'tis quite as well that 3'OU should be sent thither. I did not press this matter, thinking 3'ou a child, as 3'ou are, indeed, in years — quite a child ; and I should never have thought of
70 THE HISTORY OF HEXRY ESMOND.
treating 3^011 otherwise until — until these circumstances came to light. And I shall beg m}^ lord to despatch 3'ou as quick as possible : and will go on with Frank's learning as well as I can, (I owe m}" father thanks for a little grounding, and you, I'm sure, for much that j^ou have taught me,) — and — and I wish you a good-night, Mr. Esmond."
And with this she dropped a stately curts}^, and, taking her candle, went awa^^ through the tapestr}^ door, which led to her apartments. Esmond stood by the fireplace, blankly staring after her. Indeed, he scarce seemed to see until she was gone ; and then her image was impressed upon him, and remained for ever fixed upon his memorj'. He saw her retreat- ing, the taper lighting up her marble face, her scarlet lip quiver- ing, and her shining golden hair. He went to his own room, and to bed, where he tried to read, as his custom was ; but he never knew what he was reading until afterwards he remembered the appearance of the letters of the book (it was in Montaigne's Essays), and the events of the day passed before him — that is, of the last hour of the da}' ; for as for the morning, and the poor milkmaid 3'onder, he never so much as once thought. And he could not get to sleep until daylight, and woke with a violent headache, and quite unrefreshed.
He had brought the contagion with him from the "Three Castles " sure enough, and was presentl}' laid up with the small- pox, which spared the hall no more than it did the cottage.
CHAPTER IX.
I HAVE THE SMALL-POX, AND PREPARE TO LEAVE CASTLEVTOOD.
When Harry Esmond passed through the crisis of that malad3', and returned to health again, he found that little Frank Esmond had also suffered and rallied after the disease, and the lad3' his mother was down with it, wdth a couple more of the household. " It was a Providence, for which we all ought to be thankful," Doctor Tusher said, " that m3' lad3^ and her son were spared, while Death carried off" the poor domestics of the house ; " and rebuked Harry for asking, in his simple wa3^. For which we ought to be thankful — that the servants were killed, or the gentlefolks were saved? Nor could 3'Oung Esmond agree in the Doctor's vehement protestations to m}' lad3', when he visited
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 71
her during her convalescence, that the malady had not in the least impaired her charms, and had not been charl enough to injure the fair features of the Viscountess of Castlewood ; whereas, in spite of these fine speeches, Harry thought that her ladyship's beauty was very much injured by the small-pox. When the marks of the disease cleared away, tliey did not, it is true, leave furrows or scars on her face (except one, perhaps, on her forehead over her left eyebrow) ; but the delicacy of her rosy color and complexion was gone : her eyes had lost their brilliancy, her hair fell, and her face looked older. It was as if a coarse hand had rubbed off the delicate tints of that sweet picture, and brought it, as one has seen unskilful painting- cleaners do, to the dead color. Also, it must be owned, that for a year or two after the malady, her ladyship's nose was swollen and redder.
There would be no need to mention these trivialities, but that they actually influenced many lives, as trifles will in the world, where a gnat often plays a greater part than an ele- phant, and a mole-hill, as we know in King William's case, can upset an empire. When Tusher in his courth' way (at which Harry Esmond always chafed and spoke scornfully) vowed and protested that my lady's face was none the worse — the lad broke out and said, " It ?> worse : and my mistress is not near so handsome as she was ; " on which poor Lady Castlewood gave a rueful smile, and a look into a little Venice glass she had, which showed her, I suppose, that what the stupid boy said was only too true, for she turned awa}^ from the glass, and her e3^es filled with tears.
The sight of these in Esmond's heart always created a sort of rage of pity, and seeing them on the face of the lady whom he loved best, the .young blunderer sank down on his knees, and besought her to pardon him, saying that he was a fool and an idiot, that he was a brute to make such a speech, he who had caused her malady ; and Doctor Tusher told him that a bear he was indeed, and a bear he would remain, at which speech poor young Esmond was so dumb- stricken that he did not even growl.
" He is my bear, and I will not have him baited. Doctor," ray lady said, patting her hand kindly on the boy's head, as he was still kneeling at her feet. " How 3'our hair has come oflf! And mine, too," she added with another sigh.
" It is not for mj'self that I cared," my lady said to Harry, when the parson had taken his leave; ''but am I ver}' much changed? Alas! I fear 'tis too true."
72 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND.
"Madam, j^ou have the dearest, and kindest, and sweet- est face in the world, I think," the lad said ; and indeed he thought and thinks so.
"Will my lord think so when he comes back?" the lady asked with a sigh, and another look at her Venice glass. " Suppose he should think as you do, sir, that I am hid- eous— 3'es, you said hideous — he will cease to care forme. 'Tis all men care for in women, our little beaut}'. Why did he select me from among my sisters ? 'Twas only for that. We reign but for a day or two : and be sure that Vashti knew Esther was coming."
"Madam," said Mr. Esmond, " Ahasuerus was the Grand Turk, and to change was the manner of his country, and according to his law."
" You are all Grand Turks for that matter," said my lady, " or would be if you could. Come, Frank, come, m}' child. You are well, praised be Heaven. Tour locks are not thinned by this dreadful small-pox : nor your poor face scarred — is it, m}^ angel ? "
Frank began to shout and whimper at the idea of such a misfortune. From the very earliest time the young lord had been taught to admire his beauty b}' his mother : and esteemed it as highly as smy reigning toast valued hers.
One da}', as he himself was recovering from his fever and illness, a pang of something like shame shot across young Esmond's breast, as he remembered that he had never once during his illness given a thought to the poor girl at the smithy, whose red cheeks but a month ago he had been so eager to see. Poor Nancy ! her cheeks had shared the fate of roses, and were withered now. She had taken the illness on the same day with Esmond — she and her brother were both dead of the small-pox, and buried under the Castlewood 3'ew-trees. There was no bright face looking now from the garden, or to cheer the old smith at his lonely fireside. Esmond would have liked to have kissed her in her shroud (like the lass in Mr. Prior's pretty poem) ; but she rested many a foot below the ground, when Esmond after his malady first trod on it.
Doctor Tusher brought the news of this calamity, about which Harry Esmond longed to ask, but did not like. He said almost the whole village had been stricken with the pestilence ; seventeen persons were dead of it, among them mentioning the names of poor Nanc}^ and her little brother. He did not fail to say how thankful we survivors ought to be. It being this man's business to flatter and make sermons, it
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 73
must be owned he was most industrious in it, and was doing the one or the otlier all da}'.
And so Nancy was gone ; and Harry Esmond blushed that he had not a single tear for her, and fell to composing an eleg3' in Latin verses over the rustic little beauty. He bade the dryads mourn and the river-nymphs deplore her. As her father followed the calling of Vulcan, he said tiiat sureh' she was like a daughter of Venus, though Sievewright's wife was an ugly shrew, as he remembered to have heard afterwards. He made a long face, but, in truth, felt scarcely more sorrow- ful than a mute at a funeral. These first passions of men and women are mostlj' abortive ; and are dead almost before the}' are